India Black and the Widow of Windsor (19 page)

“The Queen always has a cup of cocoa before nodding off. Last night, an hour after drinking the cocoa, she awoke, complaining of stomach pains. Doctor Jenner was called. When he arrived, Her Majesty was suffering from cramps and vomiting copiously.”

“What was the doctor’s diagnosis?”

“He thinks perhaps she overindulged at dinner. The food was quite rich, and apparently, this isn’t the first time the Queen has eaten without restraint.”

“You were at the table. Did she eat more than usual?”

“Hard to say,” said French. “She’s got an appetite like a blacksmith. In any case, she didn’t complain until several hours after she’d eaten. Apparently, she felt fine until after she drank the cocoa.”

“You think the cocoa was poisoned?”

“We can’t discount the possibility.”

“But Doctor Jenner doesn’t think so.”

French smiled. “I rather think Doctor Jenner is here to jolly along the Queen, handing out sugar pills and listening to her complain about the Prince of Wales.”

“How do we determine if the cocoa was spiked with something?”

“I’d like you to find out who made the cocoa and who delivered it to the Queen. That should be an easy task. I imagine the servants are gossiping like—”

“Aristocratic ladies at tea,” I concluded his sentence for him.

“Quite. In any case, please see what you can learn downstairs.”

By some miracle, we’d been allowed to finish our conversation without interruption, but just as I was about to broach the subject of French spanking me like a seven-year-old who’d thrown her dolly in the pond, the door to the parlor opened and Miss Boss waltzed in.

“Forgive me, Mr. French. I thought I heard voices and wondered if any household services were required.” She scowled in my direction, and I thought it best to disappear while she was being obsequious to French.

“None at all, Miss Boss,” said French in a hearty voice. “The girl was just straightening the cushions for me.”

Miss Boss did not appear convinced, but I gave a cursory pat to one of the pillows on the sofa as I darted out of the room. I knew she’d bow deferentially out of French’s presence and be after me like a barn cat after a rat, so I shot down the corridor and fairly leapt for the servants’ stairs, shoulders hunched in anticipation of the housekeeper’s call. I made the stairs and nearly collided with Flora, who was carrying a broom.

“Lord, India! You nearly sent me flying.”

“Sorry,” I said over my shoulder, as I plunged downward. “Got to run.”

“The marchioness isn’t ill, is she?”

“Perfectly fine, as far as I know. Why?”

“I just thought the old pussy might be sick, with the way you’re carrying on.”

“She’s in fine fettle, full of vinegar.” I heard the door to the stairs swing open. I grinned impishly at Flora and put a finger to my lips. “Miss Boss,” I mouthed. “I’m trying to avoid her.”

Flora smiled back. “Run away, then. I’ll create a diversion for you.” She headed upstairs with her accoutrements. “Miss Boss, is that you? May I have a word?”

She neatly intercepted the housekeeper before she’d stepped into the stairwell and began peppering her with questions about work schedules and which rooms Flora should do first and would there be fresh flowers for the Queen’s room and so on. I thanked my lucky stars that Flora had missed her calling on the stage and ended up as a housemaid at Balmoral. I hoped she could keep Miss Boss occupied for so long that the housekeeper would forget she’d been on her way to find one India Black and scold her for wasting time with one of the guests, who just happened to be a handsome wastrel who was pals with the Prince of Wales.

Most of the servants were off performing their duties, and the hallways downstairs were almost empty, save for a few laundresses carrying loads of dirty linens and the odd footman with a tray on his arm. I found Cook in the kitchen, having a cup of tea after the morning rush of preparing porridge and kippers for the swells. She looked downcast, her ruddy face unusually somber as she stirred milk into her tea. I helped myself to a cup from the urn and sat down across from her.

“Where is everyone?” I asked by way of breaking the gloomy silence, though I had no real interest in the location of my fellow serfs.

“Running about like headless chickens. The whole house is in an uproar, what with the Queen getting sick last night. I’ve had Doctor Jenner and Mr. Vicker underfoot, peering into saucepans and rummaging through the larder. That delayed breakfast, and now the guests are complaining.”

As the aristocracy was prone to complaining at the best of times, I ignored that tidbit of information and focused on the one that interested me.

“What were the doctor and Mr. Vicker doing?”

Cook snorted. “They had some ridiculous notion that something was wrong with the Queen’s dinner last night. Didn’t I tell them that if there had been, then every other guest would have been sick, too? And what right have they to come in here and cast aspersions on my cooking?” Her face and neck had turned a mottled red. “As if I’d serve spoiled food to the Queen! What are those two thinking?”

I patted her hand soothingly. “There, there. It’s nothing to get worked up about. They’re just taking precautions. I’m sure they didn’t mean to imply that you would ever do anything to endanger the Queen’s health.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. She may be a queer old bird, but she’s always been good to me.”

“Well, then. There’s nothing for you to worry about. As you said, everyone else ate the same meal, including Doctor Jenner and Mr. Vicker, and those two are still gadding about in perfect health. I expect the Queen just had one too many helpings of your excellent cuisine.”

The flush had been receding from Cook’s face, but now it grew pink again at the compliment.

“Oh, go on with you. I do my best, and that’s always been good enough for Her Majesty.”

“Do you make her cocoa at night?” I casually dropped the question into the conversation and hoped Cook wouldn’t find it odd.

“Naturally. Everything the Queen puts in her mouth comes out of my kitchen, and I oversee everything that goes out of the kitchen.”

I gave Cook a sly smile. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of sampling some of that cocoa sometime? Flora says it’s excellent.” Now this was taking a risk, as Flora might bloody well be allergic to chocolate, but I needed to keep the conversation on cocoa until I’d found out what I needed to know.

“Any night, my dear. I usually make up a pan around eleven for the Queen. I wouldn’t mind letting you have a cup.”

“Perhaps I could save you the trouble and brew up some for myself. How do you make it?”

“Fresh milk from the Balmoral dairy, the finest cocoa powder from Fortnum and Mason, and lots of sugar. The Queen has a sweet tooth, you know. But don’t you worry about making your own. You just let me know when you’d like to try some, and I’ll have it ready for you.”

“Do you just leave it on the stove?”

“I will for you. But for the Queen, I serve it up in a china pot and some nice china cups with the royal crest, and leave the tray on the buffet by the door for a footman to take up to her.”

“Oh?”

“That’s a job for the footman with the least seniority. He always delivers the cocoa. That’s how it’s been done since I came to work here.”

She glanced at the clock. “Mercy, is that the time? I must fly.” She drained the last of her tea and carried the cup to the draining board. “Sorry to leave you, India, but I’ve luncheon to prepare.”

I smiled and waved her away. I didn’t need anything further from her, as I already knew that the most recently hired footman was Robbie Munro.

 

 

 

I went in search of the handsome young man and found him polishing a pair of gentleman’s boots in the gun room.

“Hello, Robbie.”

He glanced up and gave me a shy smile, but his face looked drawn and his movements were agitated.

“Bit of excitement last night,” I said.

“You mean the Queen?”

“Yes. I understand it’s nothing serious, though. Apparently, the doctor thinks it was merely a stomachache.”

Robbie nodded, his attention on the boots in his hands. I wasted a few seconds trying to develop a strategy for cracking this nut, something subtle and indirect that wouldn’t arouse Robbie’s suspicions, but that was a waste of time, as I’m constitutionally incapable of being either subtle or indirect. I’m better at jumping off cliffs before ascertaining there’s anything waiting for me below. So in keeping with my impetuous and direct nature, I plunged in.

“Did you see the Queen when you took her cocoa to her?”

He glanced up, startled, smearing his cuff with a streak of black polish. “How did you know I took up Her Majesty’s cocoa?”

“Cook told me,” I said. “I was reading to the marchioness last night when all hell broke loose, and I was just curious about what happened. Did you see the Queen? Was she awfully pale? Did she vomit?” I supposed Robbie had met his share of gossipy maids before, as he relaxed a bit at my questions, taking me for just another of that simple-minded species.

“I didn’t see her. I knocked on the door and Lady Dalfad answered. She often shares the Queen’s cocoa with her.”

I adopted a disappointed expression. “So you couldn’t see if she was sick?”

“No. I didn’t lay eyes on her.” Robbie returned to the task of buffing boots, noticed the splotch of polish on his cuff and swore under his breath.

“So you were surprised to hear she’d become ill?”

“Yes, but then I’ve served at dinner before, and the amount of food that woman can eat would put an entire platoon to shame.”

“I’ve heard she likes her provisions,” I said. Then I twiddled my thumbs (figuratively) for a minute and wondered what other information I could pry out of Robbie. I had asked my questions and could think of no plausible reason to linger in Robbie’s company, so I moved toward the door.

Robbie paused, brush in hand. “I was surprised to hear about the Queen, especially after the incident with Mr. Vicker.”

I halted in my tracks. “The incident with Vicker?”

“Yes, he was also ill last night.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“The only reason I know is that I was on my way to Her Majesty’s room when I passed Mr. Vicker in the hall. He was leaning against the wall and looked deuced odd, all white and shaking. I asked him if I could be of service, and he requested that I find Doctor Jenner and send him to Mr. Vicker’s room.”

“And you did that?”

“Yes, I set down the tray on a chest in the hall and went to the doctor’s room. He wasn’t best pleased at being roused at that hour for anyone but the Queen, but he went anyway.”

“And did Vicker return to his room without any assistance?”

Robbie shrugged. “I assume so. He was gone when I returned to collect the tray. I was afraid the cocoa would be getting cold, so I hurried to the Queen’s chambers and left it with the countess. She was a bit stiff about it; I suppose I was a few minutes late.”

“Ah, well, not to worry. The countess is stiff about everything.” I gave Robbie a comradely wink. “She’s never satisfied with anyone’s service. In fact, she’s convinced you’ve never been a footman before.”

The brush dropped from Robbie’s hand. His face was hidden as he bent to retrieve it, but not before I’d glimpsed the look of alarm that spread over his features.

I was swinging down the hallway, feeling rather pleased with myself for completing the mission French had assigned to me and was in search of the patrician bastard himself so as to deliver the news, when the paunchy figure of the Prince of Wales hove into view. He was without his usual retinue of jolly, half-drunk sycophants, which spelled trouble for yours truly. I cast about for a hiding place and found my options were few. I debated the wisdom of diving into one of the rooms along the corridor, but there I’d be cornered like a vixen in her den. It was better, I reasoned, to stay in public view and hope that before Bertie could fling me over his shoulder and cart me off to the nearest bedroom, rescue would appear in the form of a guest or Miss Boss or even the marchioness.

“’Allo,’allo,” said the Prince, beaming. For a fat man, he could move surprisingly quickly. Only a second ago, he’d been ambling down the hall toward me, and now he was encircling my waist with a brawny arm, breathing a potent mix of stale whisky and cigar smoke in my face.

“Your Highness,” I said, wiggling strenuously. “How very nice to see you.”

He nuzzled my neck and breathed into my ear: “It appears we both have a few moments free from our official duties. Shall we take advantage and indulge in a bit of slap and tickle?”

I’ll grant you, Bertie was bold, if not wise. He pinched my bum and I squealed, which produced a lusty chuckle from the heir to the throne.

I sucked in my breath and feigned panic (well, feigned is probably not the correct word, as I was in fact feeling some consternation at the moment), slapping away the prince’s hands. He let out another throaty laugh and tightened his grip around my waist.