To Kill a Queen (2 page)

These sombre hills would echo by moonlight to that most eerie and primeval of sounds, the crash of antlers, the bellowing roar as King Stag went into the rut, a fight to the death to maintain his territory and his harem against the young bucks who annually threatened his supremacy.

When Faro spoke his thoughts, Vince's dry response was 'Sounds remarkably as if your old monarch of forest and mountain gave lessons to humans. Seeing that the deer were probably here first.'

There was no answering smile from his stepfather, suddenly aware of a more vulnerable monarch and the periodic attempts on the Queen's life. The fact that there were fewer at Balmoral, where she was considerably more exposed, never failed to surprise him.

Earlier that year in London a youth named Arthur O'Connor had pointed an unloaded pistol at the Queen, the idea being to scare her into releasing Fenian prisoners. Prince Arthur had made a weak attempt to jump over the carriage and save his mother. But John Brown was quicker; he seized the 'assassin', and was rewarded by his grateful sovereign with a gold medal, public thanks and an annuity of £25.

The Prince of Wales, who did not like Brown and enjoyed any chance of discrediting his mother's Highlander among his siblings, complained that his brother had behaved with equal gallantry and had been rewarded with only a gold pin.

As for O'Connor, the Queen greeted his one-year imprisonment with dismay and told Gladstone to have him transported, not out of severity but to prevent him trying again when he came out of prison. O'Connor received this verdict magnanimously, his only stipulation being that his exile should be in a healthy and agreeable climate.

The attempts reported in the newspapers had now reached six. It was a sombre fact, as Faro knew, that there had been many more. Never admitted to the popular press, such outrages were confined to the secret files of Scotland Yard and Edinburgh's Central Office, where Her Majesty's visits were Faro's responsibility and a constant source of anxiety.

'She is either the most foolhardy or the most courageous woman we have ever encountered,' he had told Vince.

'Puts her faith in the divine right of kings as sufficient protection, does she?'

'Possibly.'

'There is another explanation.'

'Indeed? And that is?'

'I'd hazard a complete lack of imagination,' was the short reply.

Faro shuddered as he now thought of that distinctive imposing figure, a boon to the caricaturists and eminently recognisable even at a distance. Stoutly clad in black dress with white streamered widow's cap, the Queen presented a perfect target for a desperate man with a gun.

And here she was at her 'dear Paradise' oblivious of danger. Most days found her traipsing happily about the lonely Deeside hills regardless of weather, without the small army that any cautious monarch would consider necessary. Her security guards, Captains Tweedie and Dumleigh, were sternly commanded to remain behind at the Castle where they idled away many boring hours with nothing better to exert their wits on than playing cards as Her Gracious Majesty set forth accompanied only by her two favourite ghillies, Grant and John Brown. A formidable pair doubtless on their own terms, but no match for a determined assassin.

The Queen's only real protection, Faro knew from his aunt, was that in the country every newcomer was scrutinised and gossiped about via a bush telegraph system in many ways swifter and more efficient than the electrically operated version in Ballater. It was the simple truth that strangers could not walk these country paths without being observed, their presence questioned, remarked upon and neighbours alerted.

'Safe as houses she is,' Aunt Bella had said on his last visit. 'Ye ken there's not a blade o' grass stirs, not a new tree grows that isna' observed.'

When he had smiled at this exaggeration, she went on, 'Look out o' yon window. Naething but space ye'd guess? Aye, a body would ken that the whole world is empty. But it's no', that's no' the case at all.'

And sweeping her arm dramatically in the direction of the hills, she said, 'Fair seething wi' watchful eyes, it is. There's naught else for a body to do but mind ither folk's business. That's what.'

Upon that and upon the devotion and loyalty of her Scottish subjects and servants, the slender thread of the Queen's life and limb and the future of Great Britain and its colonies depended.

'Here we are at last, Stepfather,' Vince interrupted Faro's reverie and he saw that the vista of hills had been transformed into a town by a cluster of grey roofs and tall spires.

As they emerged from the station there were few remaining passengers unclaimed by the waiting coachmen. Faro was suddenly aware that he and Vince earned some curious glances, lending a comforting verisimilitude to his aunt's remarks.

At the station entrance a man saluted, came forward. 'Ye'll be for Mistress MacVae's place.'

'Indeed yes,' said Faro in surprise as the man took their bags and put them in the cart.

As they drove off, Faro glanced back over his shoulder. Among the faculties of self-protection developed through years of battle with violent men was a sixth sense warning him when he was under careful scrutiny, and he knew that he was being watched.

Now one solitary passenger remained. A heavily veiled woman was cautiously emerging from the station.

At the sight of him, her footsteps had faltered. And as he looked back for a moment he was certain that he knew her although her face was well hidden.

He laughed. What an absurd idea. He had obviously embarrassed the poor woman by staring so rudely. And her in mourning too. Gravely, politely, he raised his hat in her direction. There was no acknowledgement although her swift movement of turning her back suggested a guilty anxiety not to be recognised.

Faro glanced quickly at Vince but saw that the lad's attention was distracted by the handsome houses and shops as the cart trotted its way through Ballater's main thoroughfare.

Faro sighed, for a moment obsessed by memories as Vince's words regarding his own late unhappy love came back to him.

'I see her everywhere, Stepfather. I have to restrain myself from accosting innocent young women because they remind me, in a walk, or a smile, of her.'

Faro straightened his shoulders, suppressing a shudder of distaste. He must take warning from Vince's experience, since his own infatuation was now an inexcusably long time ago.

Vince was smiling at him. 'Well, we're on our way.'

'We are indeed,' Faro replied, casting aside his sombre thoughts.

And so the two men set forth, one intent upon dreams of one day being Queen's physician and the other with dreams of a peaceful few days doing nothing more strenuous than a bit of fishing.

For Faro, however, a relaxing holiday on Deeside had in store a dreadful alternative.

Chapter Two

Their road led them past Knock Castle, a grim fortress staring down through the trees. Ruined and ancient, rooks flew forlornly around its desolate walls. A sad unhappy place, deserted, as if still haunted by the blood feud in which the eight sons of Gordon of Knock were extinguished in one day by their Forbes rivals.

Then a mile away from their destination at Easter Balmoral, through dappled trees, they glimpsed Abergeldie Castle. Rose-red walls enfolded a history of Jacobites in its dungeons and the spectral presence of French Kate burnt as a witch. But no ghosts tormented its present owner, the Prince of Wales, or the guests who attended his lively shooting parties.

Beyond the castle someone with an inventive turn of imagination had come up with an ingenious device of aerial transport. A strong cable stretched across the river. On it was a cradle in which two people were propelling themselves laboriously across to the opposite bank at Crathie, thus saving the walk round by the bridge which gave access to the main Deeside highway. Their efforts were being enthusiastically applauded by a band of shrill young people.

'Shouldn't fancy that myself,' said Vince.

Faro agreed. And as they travelled close to the river bank, he observed that Edinburgh's recent drought had also affected Deeside and the waters, normally noisy and frequently in spate, had their boiling foam tamed to a sluggish stream.

Even with hopes of fishing diminishing, Faro sighed pleasurably. Each visit to Ballater impressed him with the growing affluence he found there. Once the rich had come to the famed watering place at nearby Pannanich Wells, but the building of a railway and the added attraction of the Queen at Balmoral Castle had extended prosperity to Ballater. And the railway shareholders, aware of this growth in potential, had begged Her Majesty to allow the line to be extended as far as Braemar.

She would have none of it, however, unwilling to let her shy retreat be invaded any further, preferring to keep at some distance those holiday-makers from home and abroad anxious to follow the fashion set by the Queen of Great Britain.

As Faro silently approved her resolve, their driver drew aside and doffed his cap respectfully, giving way to an open carriage approaching rapidly down the narrow road.

'The Queen, gentlemen,' he muttered.

Faro and Vince just had time hastily to remove their hats as Her Majesty swept by, her widow's streamers dancing gleefully in the breeze. A pretty young girl with downcast eyes sat at her side. Princess Beatrice, Faro guessed, who looked as doleful and unhappy as the two ladies-in-waiting, their complexions somewhat blue with cold.

Standing on the carriage box, an imposing figure in Highland dress, rosy in countenance and obviously impervious to weather, was one of her Balmoral ghillies.

Chin tilted, the Queen moved a graceful hand and permitted herself a gentle smile in acknowledgement of the other vehicle.

'I'm certain she recognised you, Stepfather,' said Vince.

Faro felt that was extremely likely, for they had shared several encounters while he was in charge of her security in Edinburgh.

He smiled after the retreating carriage. The population thought of their Queen as stern and unbending but Faro had noticed an almost coquettish tendency in her dealings with men, particularly if they were young and handsome.

This behaviour had not escaped attention—in particular her reactions to Inspector Faro who fulfilled all the conditions implied by the word attractive. In addition to towering over her physically, he could also make her laugh.

He was always taken by surprise by that hearty guffaw. It was startling in its almost masculine intensity and considerably more whole-hearted than the genteel merriment, if any at all, one might have expected to issue from the rather formidable Royal visage.

Remembering that laugh gave Faro cause to ponder as to whether there might be something after all in the press lampoons.

Vince asked, 'Would that be John Brown with her?'

'It would,' replied Faro. Could there be a grain of truth to justify the sneering epithet 'Mrs Brown'?

Memories as always came flooding back as the carriage climbed the steep hill to Easter Balmoral. In common with the Queen, Bella had been a widow for more than ten years. Her husband Ben had been ghillie at Balmoral in its humbler days before the present castle was built, when it was home to Sir Robert Gordon, who sold it to the enthusiastic Royal couple, the then young Queen and her adored Prince Consort.

Good Prince Albert had not lived long to enjoy his new home but the Queen still preferred her Highland retreat, the 'dear Paradise' she and Albert had created, to Buckingham Palace. Because of this rumours were rife that Her Majesty was in danger of becoming a recluse and a hermit. This did not pass unobserved in London. The gossip distressed and annoyed Mr Gladstone and the elder statesmen, in addition to presenting a ready target for the anti-monarchy faction.

The carriage turned a corner and there, nestling against the gentle foothills of Craig nam Ban, sat the familiar cottage. Smoke issued from its solitary chimney, wafting the haunting smell of peat towards them.

But the breeze also carried a more acrid odour. Twenty yards distant was a burnt-out ruin. The two men turned, stared back at it.

'That was Nessie Brodie's cottage,' said Faro.

Vince sniffed the air. 'Must have been quite a blaze.'

'And recent. I hope no one was hurt.'

The road was rocky and uneven and the driver failed to hear his question. Doubtless Aunt Bella would regale them in some detail. But as they stepped down, the door flew open and down the path to greet them came Tibbie, whom Bella had adopted when she was a little lame girl many years ago.

There was no welcoming smile as she ushered them indoors.

'Yer auntie's no' here, Jeremy. She's in the hospital.'

And before Faro could do more than utter a shocked exclamation of concern, Tibbie went on, 'She's no' ill. Naething like that. She had an accident. Naething broken, thank the Lord, a few scrapes and burns. Did ye no' get ma' letter?' Faro shook his head. 'I posted it myself twa-three days sine. When Dr Elgin told her it wasna' likely she'd be fit to be home for her birthday. She was that upset. Said I was to write to ye straight away. I dinna ken why ye havna' got it.'

Her rising indignation refused to take into account that most letters from Aberdeen to Edinburgh, let alone Deeside, took at least a week to arrive at their destination.