India Black and the Widow of Windsor (7 page)

“Vincent,” I cried, “where are your clothes?”

He looked at me, perplexed. “Got’em on, don’t I?”

“I meant the ones French bought for you.”

“Oh, those. They fetched a good price from ole Silverstein.”

“You
sold
them?”

He shrugged. “They smelled funny. An’ they hitched me.”

“I hope you have a better explanation than that to give to French.”

Vincent’s eyes gleamed. “Is’e comin’ ’ere? When?”

I opened my mouth to lie, but just then I heard the rap of a malacca walking stick on the front door, and Mrs. Drinkwater lurched past the study on her way to admit my visitor.

“That’s ’im now, ain’t it?” said Vincent, jumping to his feet.

Oh, hell. I scurried after him, but it was too late to intercept him; he’d met French at the door and the two were shaking hands manfully and enquiring about each other’s health. French’s eyebrows had shot skyward when he’d first laid eyes on Vincent, but being the gentleman he was, he didn’t enquire about the whereabouts of the clothes he’d bought or the aroma that enveloped Vincent (French had also arranged for Vincent to enjoy a weekly bath, which, in retrospect, had been a deuced optimistic prospect). I suppose all those years at public school with fellows nicknamed “Stinky” and “Grubby” had inured French to malodorous lads.

French handed his coat and hat to Mrs. Drinkwater and strode into the study, making for the fire, with Vincent on his heels like a newly hatched gosling.

“It’s a damnably cold day,” French said, warming his backside. “And I’m famished. Superintendent Robshaw’s entertainment allowance only runs to weak tea and stale biscuits.”

“Robshaw. Ain’t that the cove from Scotland Yard?” Vincent had made himself comfortable on the sofa. Bugger. “You been to the Yard today? ’Ow come?”

Mrs. Drinkwater plunged into the room, her stained apron flapping and her hair askew. “Luncheon is served, Miss Black.” She jerked her head at Vincent. “You can have some bread and dripping in the kitchen.”

“Mrs. Drinkwater, set another place at the table, please. Vincent will join us for the meal.” French bestowed a charming smile on my cook, which he no doubt used to great effect on the maids at his country home but which left Mrs. Drinkwater unimpressed.

“Suit yourself,” she sniffed, and gave Vincent a dark look.

You will notice that the bastard didn’t bother to consult me. I was in the bread and dripping camp with Mrs. Drinkwater, but French and Vincent were already on their way to the dining room, nattering away about knives and brass knuckles, from the snatches of conversation I could hear as I followed them.

As I expected, the meat was charred beyond recognition, the potatoes boiled to mush, and the peas had been cooked into a sticky green gruel. French looked momentarily dismayed, but Vincent dove in with all the grace of a suckling pig on the sow, chewing with his mouth open and grunting softly in satisfaction. Vincent was not a critic of a free meal. No doubt French was wondering why I employed a cook as shockingly bad as Mrs. Drinkwater. His cook had probably been trained in Paris and could whip out a
turbot sauce mousseuse
without blinking an eye, but then French’s chef didn’t work in a brothel. I counted myself lucky that I’d found a cook willing to work with a gaggle of naked women and a score of priapic, inebriated gentlemen parading through the halls on a daily basis. Unfortunately, Mrs. Drinkwater insulated herself from these conditions by drinking copious amounts of gin, sherry, wine, beer and even the odd bottle of vanilla extract. As you can imagine, this did not improve her cooking.

Vincent helped himself to seconds while French pushed his potatoes politely around his plate. “So wot’s up at the Yard, guv? Those blokes need us to sort out some trouble for’em?”

I prayed fervently that French would concoct some story about our involvement with Robshaw and the Yard, for if Vincent got wind of the plot against the Queen, he’d be in Scotland afore us, as the old song goes. But my prayers went unanswered (due, perhaps, to my never darkening the doors of a church); French launched into a summary of our meeting with Dizzy, which Vincent lapped up, hanging on every word and all the while forking food into his mouth as though he’d never eaten before.

“Blimey,” he said when French had finished. “Wot do we do now?”

“India and I will go to Scotland tomorrow,” said French.

He’d known that I would go, of course. I resigned myself to arguing with him later about his presumptuousness. Not to mention that music hall interchange between he and Dizzy regarding holidays with the French family, or was it the French family patriarch? French had some explaining to do.

“Wot about me?” Vincent cried through a mouthful of peas. I had to look away.

“There’s no place for you at Balmoral,” I said.

“But I could run errands for ya or deliver messages, or follow some of them hassassins around and report back to ya,” he protested. A tiny glob of peas landed on my lace tablecloth.

“You look perfectly at home on the streets of London,” I told him. “But in Scotland you would be as out of place as a donkey in the derby. The only people who will be there will be the Queen’s guests and her servants.”

“I could ’ide in the stables. They got stables there, don’t they?” Vincent looked appealingly at French. I could see French was weakening.

“The idea is impractical,” I said firmly.

“We’ll discuss it later, Vincent,” said French. “Now let me tell you what I learned from Superintendent Robshaw today.”

On your own head be it, I thought. If French couldn’t say no to Vincent, then French would just have to figure out what to do with the boy. Perhaps he could at least be persuaded to take another bath, being that he was going to be consorting with royalty.

French made himself comfortable, with a glass of wine at hand. “As you would expect, Scotland Yard keeps a watchful eye out for any individuals or organizations who pose a threat to the Queen. There’s always some disaffected Irishman who’s willing to take a shot at Her Majesty over the home-rule issue. And there has always been a small group of Scots who were passionately committed to independence for their country.”

French paused for a sip of wine. Now that the history lesson had begun, I could see that Vincent was losing interest rapidly; French would have to conjure up some tales of derring-do and swordplay, or the boy would be asleep with this head on the table before long. No surprise, really, given the amount of food he had ingested.

“Most of the Scottish nationalists have been ineffective organizations, consisting of a few crackpots who failed to attract many followers and ended up fighting amongst themselves. You know how the Scots are: a more cantankerous lot doesn’t exist.” French obviously hadn’t spent much time behind the scenes at his local brothel.

“But in recent months, a new group has appeared, rumoured to have connections to the Scottish aristocracy and headed by a mysterious figure called ‘the Marischal.’ Where previous groups were content to issue broadsides and hold up the odd mail train, this new organization has not hesitated to use violence. They have claimed responsibility for the murder of two Scottish magistrates and an English judge.”

This was more like it; Vincent’s nose was quivering.

“My whiskers! And this ’ere marshal is the one who done it? Ain’t a marshal got somethin’ to do with the law?”

“Marischal,” French corrected him gently. “And you’re correct, Vincent. ‘Marischal’ does mean marshal in the Old High German language. The word originally meant ‘keeper of the horses,’ which was an important role, but over the centuries the position evolved into that of a marshal, someone responsible for keeping the peace. The word is also used to designate the highest rank in the military. It’s an interesting word, with a fascinating etymology.”

Vincent now looked wide awake, but my eyelids were drooping. French must have noticed, for he emptied his glass, refilled it from the bottle nearby and plunged on.

“The Marischal did not choose his name randomly. In 1320, fifty-one Scottish peers signed a document that became known as the Declaration of Arbroath, in which they asserted their independence from the English king Edward I. You’ll remember him, of course, as the ‘Hammer of the Scots.’ The king even had the phrase carved on his tombstone, in Latin. He is reviled in Scotland for the brutality with which he crushed Scottish attempts at independence. Robert de Keith, then the Marischal of Scotland and one of the most influential men in the country, opposed Edward and put his signature to the declaration.”

I stifled a yawn. I admit to sharing Vincent’s views on history. Hangings and beheadings and torture are diverting, but my interest wanes when it comes to tales of sitting around a table and putting pen to paper.

“So the Declaration of Arbroath is the inspiration for a collection of fanatics bent on throwing off the English yoke?” I asked. “And they are killing government officials to achieve their objective?”

“Yes,” said French. “And now they have targeted the Queen. Robshaw’s men have heard that the present Marischal exerts a powerful influence over the Sons of Arbroath. He is charismatic, eloquent and passionately committed to the Queen’s death. Robshaw is convinced that the Sons and the Marischal constitute a significant threat to Her Majesty.”

“And Dizzy wants us to protect her. So what’s the plan?” I asked briskly. I doubted that there was one; French had a preference for improvising, but I had been a participant in some of his hastily devised schemes, and my predilection was for carefully planned enterprises that did not leave one staring down the barrel of a revolver.

“I suppose you’ll go as yourself.”

“Yes,” said French. “As Dizzy suggested, I’ll go along as his private secretary.”

“And I suppose you’ve got me seducing various household servants and reporting back to you on their political views?”

French glanced quickly at Vincent, to see if this graphic depiction of my presumed role had reached his tender ears, but Vincent was chewing meditatively on a piece of burned meat and ignoring the conversation. Probably devising a means of hiding himself among French’s baggage and joining us in the Highlands.

“I’ve arranged for you to act as a lady’s maid to the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine, a distant cousin of the Queen, who has been invited to spend the holidays at Balmoral.”

“How on earth did you manage that, on such short notice?”

“Oh”—French waved a hand vaguely—“the marchioness is always in need of a maid.”

My antennae quivered. “Am I expected to seduce the marchioness? Because if I am, I may just stay in London and send Rowena along with you.”

French snorted, the most inelegant sound I’d heard him make in our brief acquaintance. “Good Lord, no.”

“You seem inordinately amused by the idea.”

“She’s rather old, India. No, you will only be required to act as her personal assistant. In fact, the two of you share a similar personality. I expect you’ll get along famously. Here,” he said, handing me a packet of papers. “I’ve prepared letters of recommendation and a summary of your experiences as a lady’s maid among various Scottish aristocrats. All of it false, of course, but it will add credibility to your story, India, if you can rattle off the duchesses and baronesses for whom you’ve worked.”

“Presuming none of them are friends or acquaintances of the marchioness.”

“Not to worry. None of the ladies listed there have any connection whatsoever with any of the guests invited to Balmoral by the Queen. And should anyone enquire, they are each prepared to swear that you were in their employment on the dates specified and that you were an exemplary servant.”

“Should I bring the Webley?”

“I wouldn’t. You’ll have no privacy in the servants’ quarters, and it would look deuced odd for a lady’s maid to be carrying a revolver. I will, however, provide you with the necessary uniforms. Jot down your measurements for me, please.”

I scribbled down some notes for him, hoping that the British government had a good supply of costumes in my size, and passed it to him. He rose from the table. “I shall see you at the station tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Wear something dowdy and servant-like. You do have something frumpy in your closet, don’t you? It wouldn’t do to arrive at the station in that sapphire silk gown you were wearing the other evening.”

I assured him I would be sporting suitably cheap and practical clothing. I’d have to raid the bints’ wardrobes, but no doubt there would be a few threadbare dresses and shawls tucked away from their days as fishmongers’ daughters, milkmaids and flower peddlers. I escorted French to the door, with Vincent dogging his steps and begging to be allowed to tag along to Scotland. Knowing French’s resolve, I resigned myself to seeing Vincent somewhere in the vicinity of Balmoral. I trundled upstairs to conduct my scavenger hunt and to acquaint myself with my virtues as domestic help.

 

 

 

A few minutes before nine o’clock the following morning I passed through the entrance to King’s Cross for my rendezvous with French. At his instructions, I’d sent my luggage on ahead to be placed on the appropriate train. French was waiting for me on the platform beneath the arched roof, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He nodded approvingly at my drab appearance, noting the shabby brown wool dress and tweed coat I’d liberated from the brothel’s occupants. He took my elbow and steered me into a nook in the wall, between the ticket office and a tearoom, where he handed me a parcel wrapped in coarse paper and tied with string.

“Your uniforms,” he said.

“I hope they fit, French.”

He shrugged impatiently. “You needn’t worry. We know how to do these things.”

“For your sake, I hope you do.”

“Now, look over there,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder. “That’s the Queen’s train. Her coach is in the rear. The coaches in front will be occupied by some of her guests and the servants she is taking along from Windsor.”