Part 8 (1/2)
”Would the Sons use Archie to a.s.sa.s.sinate the Queen?” I asked. ”He needn't care a fig for Scottish independence, just be suggestible enough to be persuaded by someone like the Marischal.”
French stroked his chin. ”What do you think, Vincent? Is Archie's hatred of the Queen sufficient to drive him to kill her? Or would he be a willing tool for someone else, perhaps someone he looked up to?”
”Are ye askin' me if the man is stupid enough to do someone else's killin'? Naw, I wouldn't think so. 'E ain't no fool, not Archie. I don't think even Dizzy could talk Archie into doin' somethin' 'e don't want to. But 'e might do it on 'is own. After the Queen dressed 'im down, the stable boys say 'e ain't been the same. Spends all 'is time ravin' that 'Er Majesty ain't fit to run the country if she ain't got better sense than to 'ang around with that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Brown.”
I had to admit to some general views along the same line.
”We have four suspects,” said French. ”Not bad work in such a short time. Now we must decide how to proceed.”
”We've already got Robshaw on Vicker, Robbie Munro and your friend Red Hector,” I said.
”He might not find anything. Remember, the Sons of Arbroath are reputed to be well organized and very cunning. They will go to great lengths to cover their tracks.”
”So hit's down to us, his. .h.i.t?” Vincent wiggled like a setter pup. ”We got to do some more investigatin,' ain't we?”
”We do,” said French. ”We've got to see if we can turn up anything else, but we must go about it cautiously.”
”Search their quarters?” I asked.
”Yes, I think that's our next move. Vincent, you'll look through Archie's room for anything that strikes you as suspicious. I'll go through Red Hector's things.”
”I'll search Robbie's room and Vicker's as well. All the servants are at kirk today. This will be my best opportunity to toss some rooms.” I glanced at Vincent. ”What about Archie?”
”Aye, 'e's off to wear out the knees of 'is trousers, just like all the rest. I'd lay odds I could be done in 'alf an 'our.”
”I doubt Red Hector is contemplating his sins right now, though he might be committing a few. If he's not off for a canter, he may be sleeping off last night's excesses, but I'll try my best.” French rose from the table. ”Shall we meet back here between luncheon and teatime? After a heavy meal, I wouldn't be surprised if the whole household doesn't have a lie down.”
That sounded like the perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon. I hoped I had time to grab a hot meal and forty winks between my bouts of breaking and entering.
I hightailed it back to the castle along the path, with Vincent and French slipping away in opposite directions. This seemed like an inordinate amount of skullduggery for a situation that had yet to prove dangerous, but I supposed French was correct and we should be on our toes. The Sons of Arbroath and the Marischal could strike at any minute, and it wouldn't do for French, Vincent and me to be standing about with our mouths open and our thumbs up our a.r.s.es. So I slipped and slid along the icy path, cursing the rocks and paying no mind to the scenery until the great pile of granite hove into view, and I stole in through the servants' entrance, keeping a wary eye out for any other serfs who'd s.h.i.+rked the Sunday services.
I conducted a quick reconnaissance of the kitchen, pantries and b.u.t.tery, and was about to mount the stairs to the servants' quarters when I heard a clattering in the silver room, followed shortly by the sound of an expensive piece of the Queen's silver cras.h.i.+ng onto the floor and an oath that would have burned even Vincent's ears. I stuck my head around the door to find Robbie Munro swearing a blue streak and trying to pick up the salver he'd just dropped, a task which was not made any easier by the fact that he was wearing a pair of white cotton gloves, smeared with silver polish. He'd just succeeded in getting a grip on the platter when I pushed open the door.
”h.e.l.lo, Robbie,” I said brightly.
The tray slipped out of his hands again and hit the floor for a second time.
”d.a.m.nation,” said Robbie, spitting me with a glance. He fumbled for the salver, fingers sliding over the surface until he managed to pin it between his gloved hands. Gingerly, he lifted it to the table with all the proficiency of a newly ordained vicar conducting his first infant baptism. It slipped from his fingers just as he was about to set it down on the table, clanging loudly against the oak surface.
”d.a.m.nation,” he repeated. His face was pink beneath his golden red curls, and a bead of moisture had appeared on his upper lip. ”I thought you were sick and couldn't go to kirk. Why are you traipsing about, scaring the wits out of me?”
”I thought a breath of fresh air might help my headache. And why aren't you over at the church with the gospel grinders? I thought the Queen made everyone go to services.”
”I volunteered to polish the silver for today's luncheon.”
I didn't believe that for one minute. Granted, sitting in a wooden pew for a couple of hours while some dreary padre droned on about fornication, death and gluttony (on second thought, probably not the appropriate topic when Her Royal Rotundity attended services) was worth avoiding at all costs, but not, I thought, by volunteering to do an extra bit of housework around the castle. Especially when one did not seemed particularly skilled at the job. Robbie looked like he'd been wrestling crocodiles instead of polis.h.i.+ng candlesticks: his curls were tumbled, there was that faint sheen of sweat on his face, and his collar was awry. I suppose I have a nasty, suspicious mind, but I wondered if Robbie had been doing what I had been planning to do, namely ransacking someone's personal belongings.
”Dull work,” I said, nodding at the pile of hardware laid out on the table.
”Yes, and it has to be done within the hour.” Robbie glanced at the clock on the wall and picked up the polis.h.i.+ng cloth.
”Still, it must be exciting, working at Balmoral for the Queen.”
”I suppose it's a step up from the marchioness,” Robbie said grudgingly. ”Some might think it an honour to work for Her Majesty, but it's not what I ever expected to be doing with my life.” He looked distastefully at the silver. ”Especially working up a sweat putting a s.h.i.+ne on all this.”
”You must prefer the outdoors.”
”What?” Robbie looked up from his perusal of a pepper pot. ”Oh, yes. Rather be outside any day than stuck indoors.”
”Then why be a footman?” I asked. ”Couldn't you get on here as a ghillie?”
”Well, there's my uncle, you see. He got me the place here, and I couldn't disappoint him. He needed another footman. One of the others had left.”
”But if not for your uncle, you'd probably be building fis.h.i.+ng traps or stalking stags?”
Robbie grinned. ”That would be better than polis.h.i.+ng fish forks.”
”But weren't you a footman already, at Stirling, or was it Melrose?”
Robbie's smile faded. ”Right. Well, we can't always do what we want, can we? Sometimes we have to accept our responsibilities.”
I'd p.r.i.c.ked him, no doubt. But exactly why, I couldn't work out. Because he didn't want to be a footman? Or because he wasn't one?
”I've got to finish this,” said Robbie, turning away abruptly. ”Everyone will be back from kirk soon and ready to dine.”
”Then I'll leave you to it,” I said, and did, but not before I caught him gazing thoughtfully at me as I made my exit.
With Robbie safely tucked up in the butler's pantry putting a gloss on the chafing dishes, I ran upstairs to shed my coat and gloves, then hotfooted it down the corridor to Robbie's room. There was no lock on Flora's door, and I thought it likely the same was true of Robbie's, Miss Boss being the type of housekeeper who believed privacy was a luxury reserved for the aristocracy. Robbie's door swung open at a touch, and I closed it hastily behind me. The room was as plain as Flora's, with a single bra.s.s bed that had seen much use, a dingy rag rug on the floor, a chest against the wall and a small table by the bed, which held a candlestick and a dime novel with a lurid cover (Meehataska: The Scourge of the Mounties). I suppose after a day of helping old duffers into their socks and pouring tea for the Lady Dalfads of the world, Robbie felt ent.i.tled to a bit of light relief. I flicked through the pages, looking for the sort of things a.s.sa.s.sins might hide in bad literature-notes of a.s.signations, lists of co-conspirators and that sort of thing-but I was disappointed.
I moved to the chest and began rummaging methodically through each drawer. I'd rifled through a spa.r.s.e collection of vests, drawers (should have kept the gloves for that task), socks, collars and s.h.i.+rts when my hand touched paper. Probably newspaper, used to line the drawers, but I pulled it out anyway, very gently so that I wouldn't tear the thing, and found myself staring down at a political tract, cheaply printed in smeared ink on the flimsiest of paper. The cross of St. Andrew was emblazoned across the top, and under it, in bold letters, the headline proclaimed, ”Arise, Sons of Arbroath, and Free Scotland from English Bondage!” The writer had added a verse from Robert Burns (a nice touch, I thought, if a bit heavy on the exclamation marks): Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do-or die!
There were a half-dozen articles with t.i.tles such as ”Scotland Betrayed” and ”The Audacity of English Governance,” but the one that caught my attention was an article written by ”Marcus Junius Brutus” (whoever he was when he was at home), which, if you know your Shakespeare, was not surprisingly a screed against the tyranny of Vicky, the present Monarch of the Realm, and a call to arms to exterminate Her Royal Highness for the good of the Scottish people. I dug under the clothes and unearthed a few more polemics, all of the same type, advocating that the Queen be dispatched with haste, along with any other English sc.u.m currently exercising dominion over Scottish affairs. I pondered the idea that the handsome Robbie Munro might be an ardent Scottish nationalist who saw himself as Brutus and the Queen as Julius Caesar. It would be a shame for such a handsome lad to end up on the gallows, and a waste of muscular calves, but I supposed it wasn't that much of a stretch to see the chap as a potential killer. What did I know about the man, anyway? I'd have to tell French about the propaganda I'd found, and I'd have to keep a close watch on Robbie, which would be nearly impossible given my responsibilities with the marchioness. I was considering this dilemma, making a final sweep of the drawers and rooting through Robbie's meager belongings, when my hand touched something that I recognized immediately: a revolver.
The Queen's party and the servants had returned to the castle from kirk by the time I'd finished examining the .450 Tranter center-fire revolver hidden under Munro's socks. He might be a sportsman, but no self-respecting woodsman would pot a rabbit with that weapon; there'd be nothing left but fluff. When I heard the carriage wheels in the drive, I hurriedly replaced the gun in the drawer just as I had found it and scampered back to Flora's room, where I donned my uniform, smoothing my hair and pinning on my cap just as Flora walked in.
”Feeling better?” she asked.