India Black and the Widow of Windsor (35 page)

“Why didn’t you just tell me that the countess was the Marischal?” I asked as I draped a blanket over her knees and put her snuffbox close to hand.

“I didna know she was.”

“Come, now. She must have given you some reason to be suspicious.”

“All I knew was that someone close to the Queen had turned traitor, and after thinkin’ on it for a spell, I thought she was the most likely candidate, knowin’ her family history as I did. I tried to give ye a hint, startin’ ye out with those stories of Delilah and Criseyde, but ye didn’t catch on. I figured I was goin’ to have to throw ye a lifeline, and so I turned to Rahab and Mrs. Greenhow, but ye still kept flounderin’ around like a drownin’ sailor.”

She fumbled for the snuffbox, and I handed it to her impatiently, priming myself with a large lawn handkerchief. I waited until she inhaled and expectorated, and wiped the trickle of tobacco from her nostrils.

“Anyway, I gave ye enough bloody clues, a blind pig could have found that acorn,” she snuffled.

“What clues? We read a heap of maddening drivel about treacherous women. I thought you’d tumbled to my identity, and you were trying to tell me you knew I wasn’t a lady’s maid at all.”

“I knew the day you dropped yer first curtsey to me that ye were no more a maid than I was a hippopotamus.”

“What? How?” I spluttered. The old bag’s criticism was a bit harsh, considering I’ve played every role from virginal shepherdess to Nell Gwynne without a word of complaint from my customers.

“Ye tried, I’ll give ye that, but ye’re about as docile as a collie bitch in heat. Besides, when Horace showed me yer resume, I knew there was a worm in the apple somewhere. Nobody with references like yers would be chompin’ at the bit to work for the likes of me. I’ve got a reputation to keep up as the worst employer in Scotland.” She nudged me with her cane. “And I’ll thank ye not to spoil it fer me by tellin’ everyone how I took pity on ye and solved yer little mystery for ye.”

“And how did you know I was here to solve a mystery?” I snapped. My suspicion of French was growing rapidly. He had been the one who’d arranged this little masquerade, after all.

The marchioness pursed her lips and gave me a prim little smile. “Since ye weren’t at the castle to do my hair, I reckoned ye had another job to do. I’ve never seen such a one as you for snoopin’ and askin’ questions and skulkin’ around the halls.”

“How would you know what I was doing? You were asleep most of the time.”

She batted an eyelid at me. “Maybe I was and maybe I wasn’t. Ye ain’t the only woman who could ha’ had a career on the stage.”

My money was still on French having had a word in the marchioness’s ear; I simply couldn’t have been so transparent, especially to an ancient narcoleptic who had trouble distinguishing face powder from snuff. I felt the slight sinking sensation (quite rare, that) of my ego deflating.

“It’s not my fault ye couldna find your arse with both hands.” The marchioness heaved a great sigh and twisted the dagger she’d plunged into my self-respect. “I suppose I should have told ye what I was aimin’ at, but I thought ye were bright enough to figure it out on yer own. Well, I suppose I’m to blame, really, for overestimatin’ ye.”

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you.” I said it sarcastically, but of course that was wasted on the marchioness. She looked at me as though I was the village simpleton and to be pitied.

“Och, it’s simple, really. The countess may be a tiger, but she’s descended from an utter jackass: James Dalfad, fourth Earl of Haldane. Despite being an heir of old King Duncan, Dalfad was a ne’er-do-well of the first order. Next to him, Bertie looks like a Presbyterian missionary. The earl was just a young chap when he inherited the title, and within a year or two, he’d run through all the money his pa left him and had mortgaged the estate to pay for his bad habits. Luckily, 1707 rolled around, and the English government was lookin’ for tame Scottish peers to sign the Act of Union. Dalfad took the thirty pieces of silver the English were offerin,’ but instead of payin’ his debts like a sensible lad, he gambled and drank it away, just as he’d done the family fortune. He was desperate for money, but he found he had no friends in Scotland. Half the country despised him for signin’ the act, and the other half, who’d drunk his whisky, disappeared when they found out the money was gone. Dalfad went up to London, but the King wasn’t partin’ with any more gold. Weel, who can blame him? Dalfad would ha’ spent it and been back beggin’ for more within a year. But the King needed a few Scottish peers in his pocket, so ever since then, the monarch offers some middlin’ post to the earl’s descendents, which provides a little money and a smidgen of prestige, provided they can stand all the bowin’ and scrapin’ that goes along with it. It’s a tragic fate for a noble family.”

I’d been following this with difficulty, still trying to wrap my mind around the central thesis of the marchioness’s history lesson. “Do you mean to tell me that Lady Dalfad became the Marischal and decided to kill the Queen because she was ashamed of something her great-great-grandfather had done?”

“Naturally,” said the marchioness, astonished at my ignorance. “There’s many like her who canna live down the shame of havin’ a traitor for an ancestor. And it must have been humiliatin’ for Lady Dalfad to have to follow the Queen around like a pet spaniel. I’d be mad enough to choke if I had to converse with the old biddy and watch her paint and listen to her whinge about Albert all day long.”

“I see your point,” I said. The latter would have been reason enough to scribble Her Highness, in my book. I had a more difficult time imagining that the actions of some long-dead ancestor of mine would engender enough shame to drive me to murder. Of course, family ties were rather loose in my case, and I’d long since ceased to feel any remorse for my own actions, let alone those of my forefathers, whoever they might have been. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t fathom how the countess could get so worked up about events that took place almost two centuries ago and then take out her anger on that dull dumpling Vicky. I expressed as much to the marchioness, who hooted loudly.

“Ye’re not from here. Unless ye are, ye’ll never understand. We Scots thrive on thievery, religion and bloodshed, and our feuds are older than time itself. We’ve an ancient quarrel with England, and it will likely never end, unless the English get tired of our broodin’ and mutterin’ and cut us loose someday. Until then, there be plenty of caber tossers who’d be glad to raise the cross of St. Andrew and welcome back the heirs of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Ye know what they say: ‘All ye need are twelve Highlanders and a bagpipe, and ye’ve got a rebellion on yer hands.’”

“If you suspected that I was there to winkle out the Marischal, why didn’t you say something to me, or pass the word to the prime minister or Superintendent Robshaw?”

“And what would I ha’ told ’em? The same thing as I’m tellin’ ye, and I can see from the look on yer face that ye’re havin’ a hard time graspin’ the essential point. What do you reckon that Robshaw would ha’ thought of my intuition pointin’ the finger at Lady Dalfad? Those chaps from Scotland Yard deal in facts, and I didna have any to give ’em. Yer Superintendent Robshaw would ha’ rolled his eyes and sent me back to my room with a hot water bottle and somethin’ to calm my nerves. Ye know how men are about acceptin’ help from a woman. They’d rather have a leg cut off with a dull saw than take advice from the fairer sex. And the older you get, the harder it is to get a fellow to pay you any mind at all.”

I had to leave it at that, as I was no closer to understanding Lady Dalfad’s motivations after the marchioness’s explanation than I had been before (though I concurred heartily in her assessment of the male sex). I suppose I find it hard to get worked up about such notions as patriotism and national identity and whether my monarch was weaned on porridge or roast beef. My concern had always been with more immediate and pressing matters, like whether I’d have a crust to eat that day.

The marchioness put her head back and fell asleep then, snoring like a bulldog until we shuddered to a halt at the station in Perth. She woke with a jerk and reached for her snuffbox. For the last time, I held the container for her while she shoveled a healthy measure into her nose, and for the last time, I stood well to one side to avoid being drenched by the deluge. Sir Horace Wickersham’s ruddy face and halo of white hair appeared around the door. He cleared his throat bashfully.

“Horace,” the marchioness cried. “We’ve had a deuced fine time at Balmoral.”

“I read about it in the papers,” said Sir Horace, twisting his hat in his hands.

“The papers!” the marchioness said scornfully. “What do they know about it? I’ll give ye the inside story on the journey home.”

“Wonderful,” said Sir Horace, without much enthusiasm.

The marchioness flung the traveling rug from her lap. “Let’s get on with it. I’ve seen garden statues move faster. Get my baggage, Horace. Ina, collect my things. Hurry, Horace, our train leaves in twenty minutes.”

The beleaguered Sir Horace and I hopped to it. He summoned porters for the luggage, and I gathered up the snuffbox and the marchioness’s Bible, and rolled up the rug and strapped it to her trunk. We straggled out of the carriage together, with the marchioness wobbling along on Sir Horace’s arm while I brought up the rear. The train to Tullibardine was waiting on the other side of the platform, and I helped guide the marchioness into her carriage while Sir Horace deferentially asked the porters to look lively and have a care, please, which requests were rather rudely ignored by the hulking gentlemen who were busy tossing the bags into the baggage car.

The marchioness plopped down on the seat, and I placed the rug over her knees and her snuffbox in her lap, along with a supply of handkerchiefs, though I doubt the old pussy would have use for them.

“Well, Irma, this is good-bye,” she said cheerfully. “I can’t say ye’re the best lady’s maid I’ve ever had, but ye were certainly the most interestin’.”

“And I can’t say that you’re the best employer I’ve ever had, but you were certainly the most interesting.”

She liked that, hee-hawing silently, with the yellow stumps of her teeth winking at me from her gaping mouth.

“I was brought up never to touch the servants, unless ye were goin’ to thrash ’em, but here”—she thrust out a hand in a dirty glove—“let’s shake hands, as two prime examples of the female species.”

I took her hand willingly, despite the knowledge that I’d need to find some soap and water before I resumed my journey.

She let go of my hand and looked around irritably. “Where did Horace get to? I’ve got dogs that mind better.”

Sir Horace returned, red-faced and puffing from the effort of shepherding the stowing of the marchioness’s luggage. A great cloud of steam enveloped the platform, and the conductor stalked the boards, hustling the remaining passengers into their carriages and checking that the doors were securely fastened behind them.

The marchioness whacked my shin with her cane. “Don’t loiter about, Irene. We’ll be leavin’ any moment, and if ye miss your train, ye’ll be stuck in Perth for days. If there’s a more godforsaken place, I don’t know it.”

I massaged my shin. “Good-bye, my lady.”

“And farewell to ye. Remember to keep yer eyes open and yer wits about ye. Read yer Bible, and don’t fall for any handsome toffs with wild black hair.” She winked.

“No worries there,” I said. “Except for that injunction about the Bible. I’ve read enough of the Scriptures to hold me for the next few years.”

I said good-bye to Sir Horace, who mumbled and blushed and swept off his hat. Then I stood on the platform while the engines revved and steam pulsed out from the locomotive. Slowly, the wheels began to turn. I took a few steps, still gazing at the old lady’s window. I felt a pricking in my eye and had to knuckle it away. Damned cinders were a nuisance in these stations.

Sir Horace wrestled with the window to the marchioness’s carriage. She put her head through the opening as the train began to roll.

“I forgot to tell ye that while ye can’t fix hair for tuppence, yer a damned brave girl,” she cawed.

I smiled and lifted my hand in acknowledgement.

“Ye are yer mother’s daughter, India. Ye remind me of her. She was a brave girl, too.”

My hand fell to my side and my smile faded to incredulity. My mother? What the hell did the marchioness know of my mother?

The train was gathering speed. The marchioness was waving dementedly from the carriage. I flung myself down the platform after her.

“Wait!” I shouted. “What about my mother?”

But the marchioness had disappeared in a billow of smoke, and the rumble of the train began to recede into the distance. I stood on the platform and watched it vanish from sight.

 

 

 

I was in a right state when I entered the railway carriage that would bear me back to London, but fortunately, the other occupants were engaged in a rancorous argument and paid no attention to me. Robshaw, immaculately dressed, with his arm in a sling, occupied a chair on one side of the private car. Robbie Munro, his nose swollen to alarming proportions, sat next to him. Both men were glowering across the room at French, who was scowling back. Vincent, God bless his soul, was providing moral support to his hero, staring blackly at the men from the Yard. Dizzy, like any sensible politician, had chosen a chair between the two camps and was busy scrutinizing his fingernails.

“I can only assume,” French said coldly to Robshaw, “that you did not trust the prime minister and his agents to protect the Queen inside the castle.”

Dizzy looked pained at having been dragged into the dispute.

“Hold on, old cock.” Robshaw smoothed his whiskers. “It merely seemed prudent to have someone else in the house. And if you were unaware of his identity, you and your, er, associates would not slip up and divulge it.” His glance ricocheted from Vincent to me, and a smirk tightened the corners of his mouth.