The Scot and I (32 page)

He settled himself in bed, staring into the darkness with his fingers linked behind his neck. He was missing something. What was it?

Piece by piece, he began to arrange the puzzle of Mahri in different formations. There was a gap, something he had overlooked, one of his visions that perhaps he had misinterpreted.

When that didn’t work, he went back to the beginning and set the events of the last few weeks in chronological order: plans for the queen’s reception, the arrival of Mahri’s letter, setting up Mungo as the decoy, the assassination attempt, Dickens’s murder, and so it went on.

He drifted into sleep, then suddenly jolted awake. All the pieces were beginning to click into place.

Foster. Why did he keep coming back to the colonel?

Twenty-two

Commander Durward was a fifteen-year veteran of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Before that, he had been an academic in some of the most prestigious schools and universities in both England and Scotland. He was still an academic, but now his keen intelligence had a narrower focus. It was his job to protect the queen. He was in his midfifties, as lean as a whippet, and had the face of a poet that was at odds with his caustic tongue and abrupt manner. The commander had no patience with incompetence in any shape or form.

“The man is an idiot,” he said in his gravelly voice. He was referring to Colonel Foster. “I knew it was a mistake to leave him in charge, but the decision wasn’t mine. It came from Whitehall, and my orders were to protect the queen, not her stand-in. Her Majesty was in Windsor, so that was where I had to go. Besides, we thought it might be a hoax, and Dickens was a good, capable man.” Durward shook his head. “What a bloody botch of things Foster has made.”

He and Alex were sitting at an alcove table in the baronial foyer of the Huntly Arms in Aboyne. Though it was still light outside, the interior of the hotel was gloomy, and several lamps had been lit. Durward was under the impression that Alex had arrived earlier on the train from Aberdeen, and Alex had decided not to correct that impression. His natural caution inclined him to keep the commander guessing.

The waiter arrived with a whiskey for each of them and, after toasting the queen, they settled back in their comfortable upholstered chairs to continue their discussion on what had transpired on the night of the queen’s reception.

“I’ve heard Foster’s story,” the commander said. “Now I want to hear yours.”

Alex had to suppress a smile. He was remembering the year he had spent at St. Andrew’s University as a young man and how, whether in the right or in the wrong, he had always squirmed under Durward’s killing stare. He was no longer that young man, but old habits were hard to break. They’d developed an easy rapport over the years, but Alex never forgot or was allowed to forget that Durward was his superior. All the same, this was an unusual situation. He and the commander didn’t usually meet for drinks in a public place. They met in the offices of Whitehall, or they contacted one another by coded messages.

“At the queen’s reception,” Alex said, “a woman with blond hair shot Mr. Ramsey; then she made her escape. My brother and I gave chase but split up when we came to a crossroads. My path took me to Braemar, where I spent half the night combing through taverns and alehouses trying to find her. The next day, I tried to report to Colonel Foster and was immediately arrested and incarcerated. That’s when I learned that Dickens had been murdered.”

“And your brother?”

Alex took a small sip of whiskey. “He would say much the same as I, except that his path took him in the opposite direction, to Ballater and Aboyne.”

They went back and forth, Durward picking at every loose thread in Alex’s story, Alex taking care not to implicate Mahri. Finally, Alex said impatiently, “The woman is irrelevant. She shot Ramsey, not the queen. Ask Ramsey why the woman would try to kill him.”

Durward’s reply was just as impatient. “Ramsey has already been interrogated and allowed to go. He has no idea why anyone would try to kill him. As for the woman, the chief of security at Balmoral Castle is stabbed to death the same night that a woman takes a potshot at one of the guests, and you say that she is irrelevant? You sound just like Foster.”

“I meant to Dickens’s murder. Gavin and I went after her. She wasn’t anywhere near Dickens when he was murdered, and neither was Gavin or myself.”

“I believe you, Alex, but I can’t simply disregard Foster’s charges against you.”

“Who are his witnesses?” Alex demanded. “Stable hands, so I’ve been told, and all they can tell the colonel is that we borrowed a couple of horses. I hope you asked Ramsey where he was at the crucial time.”

The commander said, “I have yet to question him, but I’ve read his statement. There’s nothing in it that implicates you or your brother. Your trouble was that you acted like a guilty man. According to Foster, you did not surrender. You were captured. But that’s not all, is it, Alex? You broke out of prison. Foster has taken that as an admission of guilt.” He held up a hand to silence Alex before he could respond. “And you had help. The guard on duty said that he was waylaid by a man and girl. Who are they?”

“They’re friends. I’ll give you their names just as soon as my brother and I are cleared of these charges.”

The commander cocked a bushy brow. “I trained you better than that. In this game, we have no friends.”

Alex replied mildly, “When one’s colleagues become enemies, one finds one’s allies where one can.”

Durward regarded Alex steadily over the rim of his glass. After draining it, he said, “I trust you, Alex, not because I know you’re a good agent—even the best can be turned—but because Foster is such an incompetent clown, and that is putting it mildly. He knows nothing of police work or checking out witnesses’ statements. He is convinced you are guilty because you disappeared right after Dickens was murdered and didn’t return of your own free will.”

He spoke over Alex’s protest. “I’m going to do what Foster has failed to do. I’m going to chase down witnesses and get their statements again. However, I’m advising you and your brother to give yourselves up. If you don’t, you know what comes next. A ‘kill on sight’ order will go out on both you and your brother. Do I make myself clear?”

Alex’s brow pleated as he gazed at the older man. “Kill on sight? That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?” He thought for a moment. “Something big is coming up. What is it?”

Durward squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Alex said, “It must be something to do with the queen.”

“You’ll know soon enough. It will be in the papers. Queen Victoria, against the advice of her ministers, will arrive in Ballater on Saturday. She was furious when she heard that she’d been delayed at Windsor for her own safety, and beyond rage when she learned that a decoy had taken her place at the reception. Well, you know how Her Majesty feels about her duty. She is no coward. However, it’s
my
duty to keep her safe, and regardless of our long friendship, Alex, I’ll do everything in my power to see that you are taken out of play before she arrives. I’d be failing in my duty to the queen if I did anything less.”

“I understand,” said Alex quietly. And he did. If their positions were reversed, he would say the same to Durward. “You think I’m a member of Demos?”

The commander’s gravelly voice rasped with irritation. “Of course I don’t think anything of the sort! But it’s what Foster thinks. I repeat: I’m only doing my duty.”

He reached in his pocket, produced a handkerchief, and peeled back the edges to reveal a badge, a silver stag’s head, and beneath it, the motto,
Bydand
. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.

“It belongs to Mungo,” Alex said. “That’s the Gordon crest. It means ‘stand fast.’ It came to him from his maternal grandfather. He said it was his good luck piece. Where did you find it?”

“Among his things in his room at the castle. I know how close you and Mungo were. I thought you might like to have it.” He wrapped the handkerchief around the badge and placed it on the table.

A deep breath caught in Alex’s chest. He shouldn’t be shocked like this. He’d had a premonition that something bad had happened to his friend, but he’d hoped for the best. “You wouldn’t be giving me this,” he said, “if you thought Mungo was still alive. What has happened, Commander?”

Durward sighed. “We found a body washed up on the bank of the river just below Linn o’ Dee. The corpse we found is about a week old and took a terrible battering from the rocks. But, yes, we think it’s Mungo.”

“What was he doing at the Linn of Dee?” It was a remote place beyond Braemar, where the river suddenly gushed through a narrow gorge between jutting rocks and tumbled onto more rocks below. Few who had the misfortune to lose their footing at this point in the river ever survived to tell the tale.

“We have no idea,” Durward replied. “Foster had patrols out looking for him. I was hoping that he would be with you, or you could tell us where he was likely to be.”

Alex shook his head. Mungo was dead. It was just sinking in, and his mind resisted the awful reality.

Durward said softly, “I’m sorry, Alex.” He got up. “I’ll give you till midnight to speak to your friends and give yourselves up.”

“Where will you be?”

“Not at the castle. I don’t think I could stomach Foster. Send word to me at the barracks, and I’ll find you.”

Alex watched the commander leave the hotel. It was time for him to go, too. Thoughtful now, he picked up Mungo’s badge still wrapped in its handkerchief and quickly slipped it into his pocket. He wasn’t ready to palm the badge and discover its secrets. He felt horribly guilty for involving Mungo in his troubles. If it hadn’t been for him, Mungo might still be alive.

He waited a few minutes, then made his way to the back of the hotel. Dugald was inside the door, holding a workman’s voluminous jerkin and a tartan tam. Making sure that no one was watching, Alex quickly donned his workman’s disguise. The bootboy who handed them each an empty wooden crate had already been well paid for his trouble.

Dugald kept up a one-sided conversation in Gaelic as they made their way to a horse-drawn cart that was tethered to the side of the stable. In a matter of minutes, they were making their way home. There were no soldiers in sight. No one followed them.

Alex felt the fine hairs on his neck rise. It was too easy. He knew Durward. They might have a truce, but the commander would be derelict in his duty if he did not pursue every avenue of discovering his quarry’s hideout. He was reminded of their escape on the train, which turned out to be no escape at all.

It was too easy.

 

 

Calley met Alex as he entered the house. “The others are in the library, sir,” he said.

Alex nodded. “Were there any signs of soldiers or strangers in the area while I was away?

“No soldiers,” Calley replied, “but there were three riders who passed this way, oh, about an hour ago.”

“Which way did they go?”

“Up the hill, toward Birse Castle.”

Alex thought for a moment then quickly and precisely told the manservant what he wanted him to do. Without hesitation or protest, Calley left the house by the back door.

The hubbub in the library died before Alex had a chance to remove his disguise. “What’s all the excitement about?” he asked.

“Juliet,” said Gavin, “took it into her head to go into Aboyne to pick up a few things and came back with a copy of the
Aberdeen Journal
.”

“And it says right here,” said Juliet, holding the paper under Alex’s nose and pointing to a column with a belligerent finger, “that the queen is arriving in Ballater on Saturday. She wasn’t at the reception at all. You were expecting an attack and used a stand-in for Queen Victoria. That’s what it says. That was very clever, but what, in the name of God, was the point in keeping it a secret after the attack failed?”

“It wasn’t my decision,” Alex replied wearily and sank into a wing chair. He spoke to Mahri, who was regarding him as though he were a horrid maggot that she had just discovered crawling across the hem of her gown, a dark green twill that he’d never seen before. Juliet’s doing, he thought idly.

“Mahri,” he said, “I couldn’t tell you that the queen’s visit was postponed. It wasn’t my decision to make. And if you think about it, you’ll see that she was safe as long as we could keep the fiction going that she was in residence at Balmoral Castle.”

Gavin interjected soothingly, “It was a good plan. Her Majesty was well protected in Windsor Castle.”

Juliet snapped, “What irks me is that Alex told
you
about it, Gavin, but he didn’t tell Mahri or me. I thought we were in this together. I thought—”

Gavin abruptly interjected, “Well, now you know. Can we move on? I, for one, want to hear what happened with Durward. What did he say, Alex?”

Mahri, Alex noted, looked as animated as an ice sculpture.