The Scot and I (17 page)

Mahri didn’t hear the next exchange. She was thinking that her father would have expected her to be on that train, yes, and on the last train before the flood.

She was scared, but another emotion was at work in her. A slow-burning anger bubbled and simmered. Her father had duped her, used her, and abused her trust. He was in the wrong, but he would never admit it.

Alex scraped back his chair and got up. “I’ll go and relieve Dugald so that he can have his share of this delectable dinner before my brother scoffs the lot.”

Everyone laughed and complimented Mahri on her skill as a cook. By the time Dugald entered the kitchen, his dinner was cold, and Mahri wondered what he and Alex had talked about for so long.

 

 

John Murray propped one shoulder against the window frame and looked over at his employer. The professor was sitting at his desk, as still as a statue, his eyes closed. Only his clasped hands, squeezing till the knuckles turned white, betrayed his state of mind. The professor was in the grip of some strong emotion. Anger? Fear?

The professor removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She wasn’t on the train,” he said softly, then viciously, “She should have been here four days ago, before the flood.”

Murray didn’t reply. He was thinking that in another era, as the messenger of bad news, he might have been killed on the spot.

The professor gestured to the sideboard. “Help yourself to a glass of whiskey and bring one for me. A large one.”

Murray obliged. He was about forty years old, was neither tall nor handsome, but like many in Demos, he’d seen military service, though he’d worked mostly in intelligence.

He wasn’t one of the university crowd. He didn’t have money behind him or believe in causes. He hired himself out to the highest bidder, one contract at a time. That made him an outsider in the professor’s circle. Murray didn’t mind. Money was money.

“She’s the informer,” the professor said. “My own daughter.”

Murray sipped his whiskey and said nothing.

“It’s all falling into place. There was a woman involved in the debacle at the castle. She shot the gun out of Ramsey’s hand. Dickens told him that they knew of the plot to assassinate the queen. The Hepburn brothers were arrested, but they escaped with the help of a man and a woman.” The professor smiled faintly. “If that was not Mahri, then she’s either seriously disabled, or she’s dead.”

Murray knew the value of silence, and he kept his mouth shut. When the silence became prolonged, however, and it looked as if the older man had forgotten his presence, Murray said, “What do you want me to do?”

The professor tapped his fingers on the flat of his desk. “Find her and bring her to me. There’s a man called Dugald, a deerstalker. If Mahri is in the area, she’ll be with him.”

“What about the brothers she helped get out of prison?” The professor nodded. “If we find them, we’ll find her.” He leaned back in his chair. “You have contacts. Use them.”

“I’ll need more money.”

“I’ll see to it. But remember, I don’t want her hurt. I don’t care what happens to the others.”

When he was alone, the professor got up and took a turn around the room. He always tried to appear calm and collected. The absentminded professor role had served him well. But this betrayal not only cut him to the quick, it also filled him with dread. She knew too much. She could put the whole mission in jeopardy, and it wasn’t over yet.

How much did she know, and who had she told? What had she done with the documents she should have delivered to him?

And if worse came to worst, what was he going to do about his own daughter?

Twelve

Looks like half the garrison is off to Mr. Dickens’s funeral,” said Dugald.

“So much the better for us,” replied Alex.

They were crouched down in a stand of firs, on a hill behind the castle, with a fine view of the private bridge that linked the queen’s summer residence and the road to Ballater. They made an impressive picture, these mounted soldiers with their green and gold tunics and plumed bonnets. At their head, naturally, rode Colonel Foster in full regimental dress.

Dugald said, “I dinna like it, coming here in broad daylight.”

“Trust me, Dugald, with Foster and half the garrison gone, our job will be easier. We didn’t meet any soldiers on the way here, did we?” When Dugald made a harrumphing sound, Alex went on, “I know I have you to thank for that. You know this valley and woods like the back of your hand.”

“I care nothing for that. It’s this scheme of yours. It’s daft.”

Alex was losing patience. “It’s risky, but I don’t have a choice. Gavin isn’t getting better; he’s getting worse.”

What troubled Alex was not his brother’s ribs but the unlucky shot that had pierced Gavin’s thigh close to the joint of his leg. Every night and morning, Alex changed the dressing, and every night and morning, the wound seemed to be worse. He wondered if a piece of the bullet had broken off and was festering inside. Gavin had to see a doctor.

There were, however, few doctors on Deeside, and Alex had no doubt that they wouldn’t lift a finger to help a man accused of trying to kill the queen. After weighing his options, he’d decided that his best bet was to get Gavin to Aberdeen, where they had friends. It wasn’t safe to travel by road, and Gavin wasn’t fit to outrun pursuers, so Alex had made up his mind to get him away by train.

It wasn’t impossible. He had a friend at the castle who could arrange it, if he could be persuaded.

Dugald said, “This friend of yours, Miller, how long have ye known him?”

“We met at university. Mungo was obsessed with the theater club. He directed all our plays. No one was surprised when he took up acting as a career.”

“And he took the queen’s place the night of the reception.” It was a statement, not a question.

“And fooled everyone into the bargain.”

When Dugald mumbled something under his breath, Alex said crisply, “I’m holding you to your promise. You’re not to tell anyone, not even Mahri.”

“Then why did ye tell me?”

“In case anything happens to
me
.” Alex clasped Dugald’s shoulder. “You’ve got to take my place. You’ve got to look after the others. There is no one else to do it. You know that, don’t you?”

They plodded on. After a while, Dugald said, “I would do it anyway, but if it’s a promise ye want, I’ll give it tae ye.”

“Thank you.”

“I just pray that no one recognizes ye.”

“What, in this getup? Don’t I look like a forester?” Dugald’s gaze wandered over Alex, from his tartan trews to his torn leather satchel and cracked, scruffy boots. When Alex raised the ax he held in his hand, Dugald grinned. “With that fur on your face, your own mother wouldna recognize you.”

“That’s the general idea. Now let’s move.”

They stayed in the shelter of the trees as they made their way down toward the river. Alex meant what he’d said to Dugald. If anything went wrong, one of them had to take charge and see the thing through, and there was no one else he could rely on but Dugald. Mahri might not like the way the scales had shifted, but she wouldn’t take off without Dugald. Meantime, she had her hands full as head cook and nurse. At least Gavin was in no condition to work his rakish charm on her.

He felt himself cringe inside. He was a fine one to criticize his brother. Gavin was honest. He loved all women, whereas Alex had pounced on Mahri and used her as though she were the veriest strumpet—he, Alex Hepburn, who had been raised to treat all women with chivalry. And the awful thing was, he couldn’t wait to do it again.

Bloody hell! He could feel his groin tightening. Forget her! Focus on his reason for coming here!

“This will do,” said Dugald.

They were in full view of the castle and the soldiers on guard. “We’d best get started, then,” said Alex, and he raised his ax and brought it down hard against the trunk of an ailing poplar.

They had felled two trees before one of the soldiers wandered over to investigate. They paid no attention to him but carried on with their work.

After a moment or two, the soldier said, “No one told me that these trees were going to be cut down today.”

“I don’t know about that,” Alex replied. He mopped his brow with the back of his sleeve but barely spared the soldier a glance. “One of the groundsmen hired us, but I forget his name.”

The soldier squinted down at Dugald. “Don’t I know you from somewhere? Aren’t you a deerstalker?”

“That I am, but this isna the hunting season, and a man has to earn a few shillings where he can.”

The soldier grunted. “What’s wrong with the trees?”

“Poplar beetles. If we dinna cut them down, the beetles will spread and eat up all the poplars on the estate. The queen loves her poplars.”

The soldier looked at the tree, then at Dugald. “Well, don’t waste time. Get on with it,” and he walked back to his post.

“Poplar beetles?” asked Alex.

They both chuckled.

 

 

They were making their way to a small stone rotunda at the edge of the formal gardens that were off to the side of the ballroom. At this point, they withdrew into the shrubbery, but not stealthily. To anyone watching, they wanted to give the impression that they had nothing to hide. The rotunda had only one entrance facing the castle, but the walls came no higher than a man’s waist. They left their axes outside but kept their satchels and swung themselves over the back wall.

Alex rummaged through his satchel and produced his watch. “Not long to wait,” he said, “five minutes, maybe ten. Mungo is a man of habit. He can’t do without his cigarettes for more than an hour at a time. We may as well make ourselves comfortable while we wait.”

Dugald dug into his satchel and came up with a cheese and pickle sandwich. He munched on it without really tasting it. He was thinking of the preposterous story the Hepburn had told him when he’d taken the first watch the other night. The queen was not the queen but a decoy. The gentleman who played her part was Mr. Miller, whom the Hepburn had known from his university days and who had subsequently become an agent. The real queen had never left Windsor Castle, and that was where she was now, or she should be, if British Intelligence was doing its job.

Though they didn’t know it, the soldiers were guarding nobody. Mr. Miller played another role—Her Majesty’s private secretary—and no one was allowed into the queen’s presence without his say-so, except for others in the know such as Colonel Foster.

He swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and said darkly, “What’s the point of this elaborate tomfoolery? Why not let everyone know that the queen is safe and sound in Windsor?”

“Think of what would happen next. The vultures might descend on Windsor and try again.”

Dugald gave one of his noncommittal grunts. He was thinking of Mahri and how she’d tried to save the queen. She’d be crushed when she found out that it had been all for nothing. He couldn’t tell her. He’d given the Hepburn his word.

The tread of footsteps approaching the rotunda alerted them to another presence.

The man who entered blew out a stream of smoke. He seemed surprised but not put out to see two laborers sharing his little sanctuary. In Dugald’s opinion, the only thing Mungo Miller had in common with the queen was that he was small in stature with the delicate bones to go with it.

Miller said, “You’re trespassing, but I don’t mind, not if you don’t mind if I smoke. The queen detests the weed, and anyone caught smoking inside the castle would face instant dismissal.”

Alex got to his feet. In a cultured voice that was at odds with the clothes he wore, he said, “So you’re still going on with the charade, pretending the queen is in residence?”

Miller stared and gaped. “Alex? Is it you?”

“Himself.”

The other man looked fleetingly over his shoulder toward the castle. “You’re mad to come here. Don’t you know that Foster is out for your blood?”

“So I believe. Sit down and enjoy your cigarette.”

“You were always a cool customer.”

Miller sat on the stone bench and took several quick pulls on his cigarette. Dugald could see that he was on edge. Bloody hell, so was he, and he was wishing that he’d brought his pipe if only to chew on it. The Hepburn, on the other hand, seemed relaxed.

Alex said, “This is my guide, and he has my complete confidence.”

Miller looked at Dugald. “So that’s the way of it. How do you do, Mr. No Name.” He breathed deeply. “To answer your question, I can’t leave, even if I wanted to. You know that. Only the bigwigs in Whitehall can close down this operation, and last I heard, they wanted us to wait until they had consulted with the minister. That, of course, was before all the lines went down.”

He inhaled and let out another puff of smoke. “All right, Alex. What is it you want? I know you didn’t come here to ask after my health.”