Part 18 (2/2)
I hefted the vase over his head, ready to deliver the coup de grace.
Munro glared up at me. ”I'm from the Yard, you b.l.o.o.d.y idiots,” he spat. ”I'm Robshaw's man.”
I thought French was going to hit him again. ”You work for Robshaw?” he demanded. ”Why didn't he tell us you were one of his?”
Munro shrugged, grimacing.
I tugged at French's sleeve. ”You can take as long as you like when you kill Robshaw, but at the moment, we've other things to do.”
French nodded reluctantly. He addressed Munro. ”Did you see who fired the shot?”
”Just some bloke running down the corridor in front of me,” Munro said through clenched teeth. He pointed down the hall. ”He's there somewhere. I lost sight of him, of course, when you saw fit to drag me down.”
Vincent careered around the corner and drew up short at the sight of us. ”Wot's all this?” he demanded. ”'Ave you got the b.u.g.g.e.r, then?”
I explained (briefly, as I was still hoping we could move on to the task of chasing the real a.s.sa.s.sin).
”Wot the b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell are you playin' at, mate?” Vincent sputtered, inches from Munro's face.
”We'll settle scores later,” I said to Vincent. ”Now, we've got to find the man who fired the shot.”
”What about Skene?” French asked.
”Drinkin' like a d.a.m.ned fish when the shot was fired. I was right there with'im. I didn't leave'is side all night.”
”Right,” said French grimly. ”We need to find our other suspects. Vincent, see if you can locate Vicker. I'll find Robshaw”-he looked murderous when he uttered the superintendent's name-”and tell him to search the grounds, and then I'm off to track down Red Hector.”
”I'll check the secret tunnel,” I said, to French's back.
French turned on his heel, with a look of alarm. ”Don't do that, India. Robshaw's men will seal off the exit, and if our quarry is there, he'll have to return to the house. We'll get him then.”
”Oh, very well,” I said grumpily, looking vexed that French had quashed my plan. Naturally, I had every intention of proceeding to the tunnel as soon as he was out of sight. He hesitated, no doubt perplexed by my capitulation. He's a suspicious b.a.s.t.a.r.d, is French, although in this case he was perfectly justified.
”Go on,” I said, giving him a brisk shove. ”We've got to find this fellow.”
He waggled a finger at me. ”Behave yourself, India.”
I dutifully followed him back to the entry hall, where I waited until he had snagged Robshaw by the sleeve (with a bit more force than was strictly necessary to get the man's attention) and was engrossed in a conversation with the superintendent, then I sidled away and slipped up the stairs to the main corridor, where I raced off in the direction of French's room and the door to the secret pa.s.sage. I was moving at such pace that I nearly crashed into the couple tottering down the corridor toward me: a ponderous under butler escorting the marchioness to her room. The marchioness's hazy eyes focused, looking directly at me.
b.u.g.g.e.r.
She waved her cane at me. ”Here, girl! Where have ye been?”
”No time to talk, my lady,” I panted, and attempted to squeeze past.
The marchioness deftly inserted her cane between my legs, and I crashed to the floor, my face skidding across the Turkey carpet. I rolled against the wall and glared up at her, rubbing my bruised s.h.i.+n.
The marchioness looked at me accusingly. ”Ye disappoint me, Idina.”
It was hardly the time to listen to complaints about immoral behavior or indolence. ”I took ye for a clever la.s.s, but I see ye've missed the point.”
”The point?”
”Ye want to know who the Marischal is, don't ye? Ain't that why ye're here?”
”What do you know about the Marischal?” I jumped to my feet, rejuvenated by this unexpected news.
”More than ye, my girl. F'r instance, I'll bet ye're runnin' in circles right now, lookin' for the man who tried to shoot the Queen.”
”I am. And I've no time to waste talking to you about it.”
The marchioness cackled. ”Suit yerself. But ye'd do well to remember the stories we've been readin' this past few days.”
I am not a patient person, and the marchioness was trying what little quant.i.ty of that characteristic I possessed.
”Whatever you're trying to say, just say it. I can't wait around all night while you flap your gums.”
The marchioness turned regally and put her hand on the under butler's arm. ”Ye give it a think, while ye're harin' about the castle, lookin' for the man ye're after.”
She lurched off down the hall. I shook my head and trotted off toward the tunnel, fuming and sputtering like a Catherine wheel. I had a wily Scottish nationalist to find, and the dotty old bird wanted me to cogitate about the Scriptures. And Rose O'Neal Greenhow. And how, by all that was holy, had the marchioness known about the Marischal? Despite my inclination to hurry, I found my pace slowing as my mind raced. What had she been trying to tell me? I'd been certain she had learned my true ident.i.ty and wanted me to know she knew, hence those stories about wh.o.r.es and deceitful women. As far as I knew (though there were no doubt some amateurs in the building), I was the sole professional at Balmoral. I certainly didn't consider myself the only liar in the pack; I was a dilettante in deceit, compared to all the b.l.o.o.d.y politicians on hand.
By now, of course, alert readers will have deduced the theme that the marchioness had been harping on since she'd instructed me to read to her for the first time. I can only plead a lack of mental clarity, brought about by an almost complete absence of sleep since arriving at the Queen's Highland home. But it came to me now, and I stopped dead in my tracks and slapped my forehead with my palm. Treachery and treason. All the ladies I'd been droning on about to the marchioness had betrayed someone or something: a lover, a city, a country. What the marchioness had been trying to tell me was that the Marischal was a woman. I thought I had detected some sarcasm when the marchioness had referred to the ”man ye're after.”
I actually smiled when I realized I was hunting one of my own s.e.x. There isn't a woman alive who frightens India Black. I've held my own on the streets of London, when another bint and I have gone toe-to-toe over a customer, clawing at each other like two cats. I've vanquished a half-dozen other madams intent on stealing my customers or my s.l.u.ts. And I've sparred for my life with that d.a.m.ned Russian agent, Oksana. When it comes to fighting another damsel, I'm hot pickles and ginger. I didn't care what kind of political fanatic the Marischal might be; she couldn't hold a candle to a wh.o.r.e when the chips were down. I bustled off cheerily, already antic.i.p.ating the surprise on French's face when I delivered one Scottish nationalist and failed a.s.sa.s.sin to his feet, trussed like a Christmas goose.
Two of Robshaw's men were in the hall, opening bedroom doors and darting in and out, searching for the Marischal. It would take hours to search every room in the castle, and by the time the job was done, our a.s.sa.s.sin could have doubled back and found a refuge in some part of the building already searched by Robshaw's men. This, however, was not my concern. I waited until the boys from the Yard had disappeared into one of the guest rooms and then flashed past the open door and around the corner. I might be on a wild-goose chase myself, but I was determined to search the secret pa.s.sage. Call it woman's intuition (or, in retrospect, sheer bad luck).
The bare-legged Scots on the tapestry were swaying gently when I arrived. I slipped my hand behind the wall hanging and felt a gentle breeze, as cold as the Thames in January. I groped for the stone that triggered the locking mechanism. The door swung inward, and I craned my neck around the opening. A soft yellow glow filled the tunnel. I tamped down the excitement rising in my breast; the bearer of the light could easily be one of Robshaw's men, for surely the superintendent knew of the tunnel. Still, with luck, I might lay hands on the Marischal.
I was halfway through the door before it occurred to me that I needed my own light, so as not to be left stranded in the dark again. More important, I needed a weapon. I s.n.a.t.c.hed a candle from one of the half-dozen candelabras scattered on chests up and down the hall, and rummaged through a half dozen of those before I found a box of matches. The weapon proved easier to find. I had only to take a few steps to find myself in front of one of the numerous martial displays that dotted the castle walls. I scanned the board swiftly. The great two-handed claymore caught my eye, if for no other reason than it looked intimidating as h.e.l.l. Unfortunately, wielding it effectively would require the strength of Hercules, which I did not possess. I took down a sgian dubh, weighing it in my hand. I could certainly handle this, but I'd have to move in close to the Marischal to use it, and I didn't fancy that notion. I tossed the little weapon to the floor, wis.h.i.+ng fervently as I did so that I had been allowed to bring my Webley Bulldog along. It looked as though the a.s.sa.s.sin had discarded her revolver in the hall, but that didn't mean she didn't have another. If the Marischal had a revolver, I would be wandering the Elysian fields before dawn, and it would be just my luck to b.u.mp into dear departed Albert there and have to natter with the poor soul about Vicky and Bertie and all the rest. Well, there was no use standing here all night, dithering about which edged weapon would best protect me from a bullet. I s.n.a.t.c.hed a Scottish broadsword from the wall, waggled it experimentally and took some solace from the comforting sound of the double-edged blade swis.h.i.+ng through the air. Then I plunged into the tunnel.
The glimmer of light could still be seen, though it had receded some distance into the pa.s.sage. I didn't bother to light my own candle, not wanting to give myself away to my prey, so I edged forward cautiously, scarcely breathing. It was tedious work, following that murky gleam down the stone-walled corridor, and it seemed to take forever. I occupied my mind by imagining the various scenarios that might occur and calculating how best to ambush the woman in the limited confines of the tunnel. It was deuced cold in the pa.s.sage at this time of night, and my teeth began to chatter like castanets. I clamped my jaws together and hurried stealthily onward. The sooner I ran the Marischal to ground, the sooner I could have a stiff drink and crawl into a warm bed. Perhaps if I captured the Marischal, I'd receive an appropriate reward: six pieces of coal instead of three.
The conclusion of the chase came sooner than I had expected. The pale golden gleam of the light ceased moving, flickering over the walls of the small room I'd found in my earlier exploration of the tunnel. I sucked in a breath and glided forward. I moved as silently as a Red Indian, albeit one wearing a silk ball gown, the rustling of which sounded like a typhoon approaching. Too late, I remembered my earlier vow (made while hunting those d.a.m.ned Russian agents) to acquire a pair of trousers for use in chasing spies, hand-to-hand combat and similar pursuits. But luckily for me, the figure I now saw was too preoccupied to hear the whispery fluttering of my skirts.
A slender form stood before me, dressed in tartan trews and a short, dark jacket, a Balmoral cap perched on its head. A black woolen cloak lay discarded on the floor. The figure bent over, rapidly untying the laces of a pair of stout boots. I was tempted to retreat, find the marchioness and bash her over the head with the b.u.t.t of my broadsword. I'd been expecting to find a woman; now I'd have to take my chances with a member of the male s.e.x, who looked lithe and fit as a champion hurdler. The sensible thing would be to silently retrace my steps and summon help, but I find it infernally difficult to do the sensible thing when my blood is up, as it was now. I could hear French's posh voice in my ear, telling me not to be rash, but I shut it out. I had two things going for me: the element of surprise and an aversion to fighting fair.
”The Marischal, I presume?” To my relief, my voice was steady.
The figure spun to face me, mouth agape. A mouth shaped like a rosebud.
Good Lord, that couldn't be . . .
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