Officious clot.
A muscle twitched in French’s cheek. “My associates and I spent a great deal of time trying to eliminate Munro from the field of suspects; time, I’m sure you’d agree, which could have been spent more wisely trying to find the real culprits.”
Munro ran a hand through his curls. Since I’d discovered the handsome devil had been a red herring, planted by the Yard, I’d ceased to find him attractive. “I may have distracted you, French, but I did succeed in infiltrating the Sons of Arbroath.”
“My dear boy,” drawled French, “you’d made the acquaintance of poor Archie Skene, whose only motive in joining the nationalists was a grudge against John Brown. You attended one meeting of the group. You hadn’t exactly penetrated the inner circle, nor did you learn enough from your contacts with the group to prevent the attacks on the Queen.”
“At least I didn’t trip over my own shoelaces and have to run away like a frightened rabbit,” Munro said hotly. “And what about Miss Black? She was sharing a room with Flora Mackenzie, for God’s sake. You’d have thought Miss Black might have noticed
something
was amiss.”
“Now, now,” murmured Dizzy. “Perhaps we should simply agree that things might have been handled better by all parties involved, rather than attempt to cast blame on one another.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Prime Minister,” said Robshaw. “But you’re not the one catching it in the papers.”
Dizzy waved a hand airily. “Oh, the press. You are much too sensitive, Superintendent. My advice to you in dealing with journalists is to develop a skin like a rhinoceros. But I shall see that several of our journalist friends receive a communiqué from the prime minister’s office praising your efforts in capturing Lady Dalfad and dismembering the Sons of Arbroath. The uproar will die down eventually.”
French uttered a guttural noise of disgust.
“Bah!” Vincent exclaimed.
I remained silent, being in no mood to argue over who would get credit for removing the threat to the Queen. If anyone received the accolades, it should be John Brown, in my opinion. If the old girl hadn’t been leaning over for a chin wag with the chap, she’d be dead now.
Bells clanged and the locomotive emitted an earsplitting whistle.
“Ah.” Dizzy sighed. “We shall soon return to civilization. Superintendent, perhaps you would oblige me by describing the aftermath of the attempt on the Queen’s life. I find that I have been so preoccupied in calming Her Highness and attending to affairs of state, that I have little knowledge of what has transpired. For instance, what of Vicker?”
“I can tell you that,” said Vincent, before Robshaw could open his mouth. “I ’unted the cove down right after Flora tried to shoot the old . . . er, ’Er ’Ighness. ’E was tryin’ to ’ush the maids, who’ad gone ’ysterical on ’im, and they were flutterin’ about like a bunch of chickens about to ’ave their necks wrung. ’E was soaked with sweat and white as a sheet, and babblin’ about the Queen gettin’ killed on ’is watch and, oh, the shame of it. I ’ustled out and found one of the men from the Yard”—a murderous look here at Robshaw—“and told ’im to collect Vicker and bring ’im in for questionin’. Which, I might add, ’e proceeded to do.”
“Vicker may have acted suspiciously,” said Robshaw, “but he wasn’t involved with the Sons of Arbroath.”
“The man was as nervy as a middle-aged spinster,” I said.
“Yes, he was, and it turns out that he had good reason to be,” said Robshaw. “It seems Vicker had developed an affection for one of the Queen’s dressers at Windsor. One thing led to another, as it often does in these situations, and the young woman found herself with child. To Vicker’s credit, he did right by the girl. They were married a few weeks ago at a small parish in London, where neither was known.”
Vincent’s forehead wrinkled. “Wot’s the problem, then?”
“I expect the Queen would not have been pleased,” said French.
“And Vicker knew it. He’d be out on his ear, and his wife with him, as soon as the Queen found out. As you know, Vicker wasn’t supposed to accompany the Queen to Balmoral, but the master of the household fell ill and Vicker had to fill in for him. Vicker had been intending to tender his resignation while Her Highness was away in Scotland. Instead, he was forced to join the Queen’s household for the holiday. He was doubly anxious, as he was now responsible for running things at Balmoral, and because he dreaded the return to London, when he’d have to give his notice.”
“Poor devil,” muttered Dizzy. “What will he do now?”
“He’s off to South Africa,” I said, explaining to Dizzy about the letter I’d found in Vicker’s wastebasket.
“With his new bride,” added Robshaw.
“Wot about Archie?” Vincent had found a hamper of sandwiches and was helping himself, opening them one by one and discarding the watercress and cucumber varieties.
“He’s been arrested.”
“Go easy on ’im, won’t you, guv? ’E’s a decent bloke. I reckon I’da done worse than join a bunch of blokes in skirts if John Brown ’ad ’umiliated me like ’e done Archie.”
“I think you can rest easy on that score, Vincent,” said Robshaw. “Skene was never more than a bit player in this drama. As you said, he was drawn into the Sons of Arbroath because he was angry that the Queen had demoted him on Brown’s recommendation. He denies any involvement in the incident with the block and tackle in the stable, and I’m inclined to believe him. Skene resented the Queen but didn’t really want to see her killed. I think he simply fell in with a bad lot and got in over his head. Just because he drank whisky with the conspirators doesn’t make him one.”
Vincent nodded emphatically. “Archie’d drink with anyone, long as the liquor was free.”
“We’ve arrested Flora’s mother, the cook. Unlike Archie, she freely admits to being a member of the nationalists. What’s more, she’s confessed to poisoning the cocoa, at Flora’s direction. Flora, of course, had received the order from Lady Dalfad.”
“I’m still baffled as to why the countess didn’t have the Queen killed by the cocoa,” I said.
“She intended to kill her, but evidently, Cook bungled the amount of poison she added to the chocolate. That accounts for the amateurish attempt with the block and tackle. That,” Robshaw added, “was put together rather hurriedly by two lads who’d recently joined the Sons of Arbroath and were anxious to prove their commitment to the cause. We’ve picked them up in Leith, and we’re questioning them now. One of them has already confessed to cracking Vincent’s noggin. As for Cook, she’ll most certainly be tried for attempted murder, and she won’t make a good witness on her own behalf: she says she’d kill the Queen if she had the chance again.”
French had been brooding, rubbing the knot on his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell us about Skene’s connection to the nationalists, when we asked you for information?”
Robshaw and Munro exchanged glances.
Munro spoke. “We were cultivating him as a source of information and as a means of introduction to the nationalists. We didn’t want you to interfere.”
French’s face was a study in rage. “Interfere,” he repeated, softly.
Dizzy leaned over and put a restraining hand on French’s arm. “Whatever our personal feelings about the way affairs were handled, the important thing is that the Queen is safe.”
French subsided, but I reckoned that Superintendent Robshaw would be receiving a visitor in the near future that he wouldn’t enjoy seeing.
Vincent had cherry-picked the sandwiches and had progressed to the cakes. He shoved one into his mouth. “Wot about the countess?” he said through a mouthful of crumbs.
Dizzy brightened. It was his turn to talk. “Under the Treason Act, she will be tried by the House of Lords. I have no doubt that she will be found guilty.”
“And wot then. This?” Vincent jerked an imaginary rope around his neck, crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
“Theoretically, hanging could be the punishment. But I think it more likely that because she is a woman, and a member of the aristocracy, her sentence will be reduced to life imprisonment. Punishment enough, I suppose.”
“The way I see it, you orter string ’er up. She tried to knock off the Queen, after all. Wot’s the world comin’ to, if criminals don’t get punished for their crimes?” Vincent was outraged, as only those guilty of lesser crimes can be when a rogue of the first order gets off lightly.
“What’s the punishment for theft in Scotland? Say, theft of medicine?” I asked. There were puzzled glances all around, except for Vincent, who rolled an eye at me, and French, who bore an expression of slowly dawning comprehension.
“There is the question of what should be done with the marchioness,” said Robshaw.
“The marchioness?” I asked. “Why must something be done with the marchioness?”
Robshaw shifted irritably in his seat. “Miss Black, I’m still unclear about the role you played in this affair. Indeed, I am curious as to why you and the lad there”—he nodded at Vincent—“were involved in this matter at all. What exactly are your responsibilities, and to whom do you report?”
“To me,” Dizzy interjected swiftly, presumably because he’d seen the homicidal glint in my eye. “And I must confess to being as confused as Miss Black with respect to your statement about the marchioness.”
“Obviously, she knew Lady Dalfad was the Marischal but did not see fit to inform us,” said Munro.
“Now, wait just a bloody minute,” I said. “The marchioness didn’t know about the countess; she only assumed she was the leader of the nationalists because of what the marchioness knew of Lady Dalfad’s family.”
“How do you know that?” Robshaw asked.
“Because she told me.”
“Naturally, that will suffice as evidence,” Robshaw sneered.
I sniffed. “She said you wouldn’t have believed her if she had come to you with her suspicions, and your reaction proves she was right.”
Robshaw rolled his eyes, just as the marchioness had predicted he would. He cocked his head at the prime minster. “I repeat my question, Lord Beaconsfield. Should we charge the marchioness?”
“No.” The negative had come simultaneously from Dizzy, French and me (not that my opinion counted for much, but if the marchioness went to gaol, I wouldn’t have a chance to winkle out whatever information the old bag might possess about my mother).
“Why not?” asked the superintendent.
“I won’t allow it,” said Dizzy, but he said it gently, for he could see that Robshaw was steamed.
Robshaw looked thunderous and Munro no less furious, but Dizzy put up a placating hand to forestall their protests. “I’m afraid that is all I’m prepared to say on the matter. You must leave the marchioness alone.” My suspicion that the marchioness was one of Dizzy’s soared into full flight.
I dug French in the ribs. “I expect a full report on the marchioness’s activities from you and Dizzy when we get back to London,” I whispered.
He massaged his side, the picture of injured innocence. Crafty bastard. I’d get the truth out of him, one way or the other.
A few days later, French arrived at the door of Lotus House, carrying a large box with a pretentious bow of bloodred silk. Mrs. Drinkwater admitted him, cooing with admiration at the parcel, and at his instruction, bore it off to the kitchen. I could have informed French that bribery would not improve Mrs. Drinkwater’s culinary skills, but if he wanted to waste his money on hothouse flowers at this time of year, it was his decision.
French’s usual expression of aloof arrogance had been replaced by a genial smile, which made me instantly wary. He settled himself in a chair by the fire and propped his boots on the fender.
“Make yourself comfortable, French. May I offer you a whisky? Brandy and soda? A tankard of ale?” French’s blithe familiarity at Lotus House was beginning to irk me.
“Whisky, please. Make it a double.”
I delivered it with ill grace. I was going to have to start charging French for the cost of his liquor, just like any other customer.
“How fared Lotus House in your absence?” he asked after he’d savoured the first taste of his drink.
“As I expected, Clara Swansdown is refusing to have anything more to do with men. Says she prefers women now, after Rowena introduced her to the Sapphic pleasures.”
“What will you do?”
“Oh, she’ll come round, once she realizes there’s no money to be made in that trade. I’ll feed her for a week, and if she doesn’t toe the mark, I’ll send her on to Rowena with a note. Rowena can pay to keep her, if she wants.”
“You’re a harsh woman, India.”
“I’m in business, French. Would a racing stable keep a lame nag? Would the railway keep a blind conductor?”
There was a scuffle in the hallway, and Mrs. Drinkwater arrived, gripping Vincent by the collar. How that young pup could discern French’s presence at Lotus House was a mystery to me; the boy must do nothing but loiter about the neighborhood all day on the off chance his hero would appear on the scene.
“I tried to keep this dirty cur out, but he darted past me and made straight for your study,” said the cook, breathing heavily.
“You’re losing your edge, Vincent. I can’t believe Mrs. Drinkwater was able to catch you.”
Vincent shot me a venomous glance and wrestled his collar free from the cook’s grasp.
“She tripped me with ’er rollin’ pin,” he said sulkily.
“It’s alright,” I said to the cook. “Let him in. We’re having a drink, Vincent. Care to join us?”
“Too right.” Vincent lunged for the drinks cabinet, but I leapt to my feet and intercepted him. That boy had a hollow leg. I poured out a moderate measure, which Vincent looked at dubiously but accepted. He plunked down in one of my best chairs before I could stop him. I closed my eyes. I’d have to have the fumigator around.
French raised his glass. “To success in Scotland.”
We drank (well, who needs an excuse, really?), but I was shaking my head before I’d finished.