India Black and the Widow of Windsor (5 page)

“The Queen,” intoned Dizzy in funereal tones, “is spending the Christmas holiday at Balmoral.”

Well. Bit of a letdown, really. What did I care where the old bag ate her plum pudding on the day of our Lord’s birth? I glanced at French to see if he found this news as disturbing as Dizzy and was relieved to see that he looked as puzzled as I felt. Dizzy was staring at us expectantly, obviously awaiting our response to this doleful news.

I tried to think of something to say; deuced difficult though it was. “Er . . . I take it that that is not her customary practice.” Not bad under the circumstances. Sometimes I surprise myself.

“Indeed not!” Dizzy expostulated. “She has never done so in the past. She always spends the holiday at Osborne, her home on the Isle of Wight.”

“Well,” said French carefully, “if she wants to make a change, is that not a good thing? She has been rather restricted in her habits since the prince died. Perhaps an alteration of her usual schedule would benefit Her Majesty’s health.”

Dizzy looked aghast. “Mr. French, I do not object to her changing her holiday plans. If she wanted to spend Christmas in Kathmandu, I should not mind. No, sir, I should not mind in the least. The problem, however, is that she requires that I also go to Balmoral, as minister in attendance, and I am not well. Not well at all, at the moment.”

He settled back in his chair with a “there, how do you like that?” air.

“I see,” said French.

I did not. How to approach this? Stupidity always works. “Minister in attendance?”

“Yes,” said Dizzy. “The Queen must always be accompanied by a senior member of the government, to deal with correspondence and any issues of importance that might arise when she is away from Windsor.”

“You said, ‘a senior member of the government.’ Does that not mean that someone else could go instead of you?”

“Of course,” Dizzy groaned. “But the Queen insists that
I
accompany her to Balmoral. God, what a disaster.”

Spending the Christmas holiday confined in a draughty stone house in the middle of the Cairngorm Mountains with Vicky and her retinue did indeed sound like a dreadful proposition, but I figured Dizzy had no one to blame but himself. He’d gone out of his way to woo the Queen since he’d become prime minister, flattering her egregiously, calling her the “Faery” (difficult to believe, I know, since she’s built like a brick lavvy, but there you are), sending her flowers and valentines, collaborating in her deification of her dead husband, Albert, and basically fawning over the woman until the rest of her ministers and attendees had to leave the room because they were feeling nauseous. Can’t say I blamed Dizzy, though. As a result of his loving attention to this plump, homely woman, he had more influence over her than any previous prime minister. He had unparalleled access to her, and now, it seemed, he also had an invitation to Balmoral.

“I abhor that pile of stone,” Dizzy sniffed. “Her Majesty, as you know, always insists on the windows being left open to let in the fresh air, and since she can’t abide coal fires, it’s like living among the Esquimaux. I swear there were icicles on the wall of my bedroom the last time I was there. A man can’t even console himself with a bit of tobacco. If you want to smoke, you have to go outside and stand in the cold. It’s uncivilized, I tell you. Uncivilized.”

Quite a predicament for the old chap, but it didn’t really sound like a problem requiring the abilities of India Black. Or French, for that matter.

He must have been as perplexed as I was, for he drained the last of his brandy and soda and asked, “Why does the Queen want to go to Balmoral at this time of year?”

“Because,” Dizzy said bitterly, “Albert told her to go.”

“Sent a telegram, did he? ‘Dear Vicky, go to Scotland. Al.’ Is that it?”

French looked daggers at me and I shut my mouth, but Dizzy seemed undisturbed by my appalling lack of etiquette.

“He communicated with her through a spirit medium.” Dizzy rose and staggered to the sideboard, where he replaced his glass of milk with one of brandy. He took a large gulp. “You’ve no doubt heard the rumours: the Queen believes that Albert speaks to her from beyond the grave. She consults mediums quite frequently. Apparently, Her Majesty has just seen an American woman, Mrs. LeBlanc, who is all the rage among the aristocracy at the moment. People claiming to see their dead rat terriers and that sort of rot.” He seemed to realize that he was skirting near the edge of the cliff labeled “casting aspersions on the Queen’s sanity,” and made a beeline for safety.

“Oh, what does it matter if the Queen believes that she speaks to her dead husband? If she derives some solace from these séances, then there can’t be any harm, can there?”

I supposed not, as long as Albert was only comforting his widow and not instructing her to declare war on the State of Vermont, for example.

“She’s never recovered from his death,” said Dizzy, coughing. “Do you know, she’s kept his rooms just as they were on the day he died, with a clean nightshirt on the bed and hot water brought in every morning for his shave?”

Sounded like certifiable behavior to me, but I suppose one of the privileges of the monarchy is going mad while everyone goes on bowing and scraping, pretending you’re merely the tiniest bit eccentric.

“Is there something we can do for you, sir?” asked French.

Dizzy’s courtesy reasserted itself as he noticed our empty tumblers. “Oh, good Lord, I’ve let your glasses run dry. You must have another, by all means. I’ll call Ralph.”

“You needn’t bother. I’ll manage for us all.” I was grateful for the chance to do something other than listen to the old man (fond as I am of him) whinge about our sovereign, even if it meant serving drinks, a decidedly servile role I usually despised. I replenished French’s drink and mine, looked helplessly around for the jug of warm milk and decided that what Dizzy needed was another stiff brandy.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said when I placed the glass in his hand. It trembled slightly. That wasn’t like Dizzy. He must indeed be ill, for he set great store in presenting an air of imperturbable insouciance.

“Perhaps you could explain to the Queen that you’re not feeling up to the journey and that a stay at Balmoral might have deleterious effects on your health,” I suggested.

Dizzy smiled weakly. “It’s true I’m not up to my usual standard of robust vitality, but I fear the Queen has little sympathy for her ministers when she wants them by her side. They are expected to be there.” He looked glum. “Besides, if she thought the trip to Balmoral might kill me, she’d likely jump at the chance to ask me to carry a message to Albert. No, I shall have to go, regardless of my health. Why, I’ll even have to procure a note from my physician, advising the Queen that I will require a warm fire in my room and extra blankets. I’ve had to do so before, you know.”

“Is there something else that’s troubling you, sir?” asked French.

“Ah.” Dizzy rubbed his nose. “Very perceptive of you, Mr. French. Indeed, there is another matter that causes me concern. Enough concern, I might add, that I felt it necessary to invite you and Miss Black here tonight to discuss it with me.”

Now we were getting down to brass tacks, which suited me perfectly. I never was one for sitting around sickrooms and soothing fevered brows with a cool hand. I empathized with Dizzy, but I’d been growing increasingly impatient (and bored) as the minutes ticked by without a hint as to why French and I had been summoned.

“Russians again?” I asked.

“Worse,” said Dizzy. “The Scots.”

“Have they crossed the border and attacked York?”

Dizzy laughed mirthlessly. “That might be a less difficult issue to resolve. No, the clans have not risen and there’s no revolution in sight. There are, however, a few men and women who refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of the British monarchy in Scotland. Have you heard of the Sons of Arbroath?”

French rose from his chair and raked the coals vigorously. “The Scottish nationalists? The group that is agitating for an independent Scotland?”

“The very same. Not that the idea of an independent Scotland has ever truly died out among the Scots. Quite a few of them still loathe the Act of Union of 1707, convinced that the Scottish parliament signed away Scottish freedom in exchange for trading privileges with the English colonies. You know that old saying of the Jacobites? ‘We are bought and sold for English gold.’ Many Scots continue to hold that view.”

French nodded. “They do have a legitimate grievance. The act was shabbily handled by both members of the Scottish aristocracy and the English government, being pushed through the Scottish parliament by men who were rewarded with gifts of money, monopolies on trade, and grants of peerages. It’s difficult to argue that the majority of the Scots agreed with the decision to join England, especially as Scotland relinquished the right to govern itself.”

“It’s been nearly a hundred and seventy years since the act was signed. Surely feelings have died down by now,” I said.

“Certainly not among the Sons of Arbroath. They are fanatics. They will do anything to achieve their aims, including murdering the Queen.”

French resumed his chair and directed a question to the prime minister. “What do you know?”

“India, my dear, would you mind fetching that shawl across the bed and bringing it to me? There’s a draught in here.”

I certainly couldn’t feel a draught as French had just stoked the fire and the room was infernally hot. But I fetched the shawl anyway and draped it gently around the old man’s shoulders, tucking it in and giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder as I did so. He smiled up at me in his charming way, and I felt a lump rise in my throat. Good God, this wasn’t like me at all. I hurried back to my seat and gulped down some whisky to steady myself. The last time I’d felt something akin to sympathy was . . . well, it had been so long ago I couldn’t remember. Sympathy was bad for business, and I’d vowed never to make a decision based on that most unreliable of emotions. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a wee bit of compassion for the old gallant.

“As you’re aware, Division A of Scotland Yard is responsible for the Queen’s personal safety. Superintendent Robshaw, the head of A, is a reliable chap, not given to seeing threats where none exist. His informants have heard rumours that the Sons of Arbroath intend to assassinate Her Majesty.”

“Is the intelligence accurate? The sources trustworthy?” asked French.

“Robshaw thinks so, and if he does, I must. There is more, however. It seems the Sons of Arbroath have learned of the Queen’s impending visit to Balmoral and are planning to execute her there, on Scottish soil, in a daring act of defiance.”

“How would they manage to do that?” I asked. “Surely security there will be as tight as a corset on a fat woman.” The penny dropped. “Ah, I see. There’s a fox among the chickens.”

Dizzy nodded, the black curl on his forehead bouncing. “It would seem so. First, the Sons of Arbroath have learned of her plans to go to Balmoral, which are not widely known at this point. That would imply that someone has leaked the information to them.”

“Could they have picked up gossip on the street?” French was contemplating the flames in the fireplace.

“It’s possible, of course. But I only learned of her plans myself the day before yesterday. What is more worrying, however, is the rumour that the assassination will occur at Balmoral. The Queen will take a few attendants and servants with her, and some of the local Scottish nobility will be invited to join her for a few days to celebrate the season. The Scottish servants who customarily wait upon the Queen when she is at the castle will of course be there. Robshaw is inclined to believe that the killer or killers may have infiltrated one or more of these groups of people. You are correct, India. Balmoral will be well defended from any assaults that originate from outside the castle. But the Queen is vulnerable if the would-be assassin is among those who are
within
the castle.”

Dizzy hugged the shawl tightly around his shoulders. “I want you both to go to Balmoral. Mr. French, you will accompany me as my private secretary, but your real purpose will be to observe the Queen’s guests and ensure that none of them pose any harm to Her Majesty.” He paused. “Will it be difficult for you to leave your fa—”

“Father,” interjected French, quickly.

“Er, quite. Will it be difficult for you to leave your father during this time of year?”

“He understands the demands of my work, sir. Thank you for inquiring.”

My ears had pricked up at this exchange. I had a difficult time imagining French as a dutiful son, attending church with the pater on Christmas morning and sharing roast goose with the aged geezer at luncheon. Certainly, I knew he had parents, somewhere, at some point in his life, or he wouldn’t be gracing this earth with his presence. But he’d never mentioned any details regarding his hearth and home since I’d known him. And I could have sworn that Dizzy had been preparing to say something other than “father.” Well, I’d winkle the information out of French later. I scorched him with a glare, and he looked away. Guiltily, I thought.

Dizzy turned a bright eye upon me. “And Miss Black, dear Miss Black. You exhibited such ingenuity and bravery in that affair of the War Office memo.”

Brace yourself, I thought. When Dizzy turns on the charisma, India Black is liable to end up in the soup.

“It would be extremely helpful if we were to have a sp . . . er, a source among the servants. We need someone trustworthy to ascertain if a traitor lurks among them. Where, I thought, can I find someone who has the intelligence, the courage and, may I say it, the
brass
to play such a role?” Dizzy looked appealingly at me, like an ancient and adoring hound. I had the urge to scratch his ears.

“The prime minister is right, you know,” said French. “You have the nerve to carry it off, and that will be half the battle. Servants’ quarters are usually closed to outsiders, but if anyone can find a way to wriggle in, you can, India.”