Part 20 (1/2)

”Well, Irma, this is good-bye,” she said cheerfully. ”I can't say ye're the best lady's maid I've ever had, but ye were certainly the most interestin'.”

”And I can't say that you're the best employer I've ever had, but you were certainly the most interesting.”

She liked that, hee-hawing silently, with the yellow stumps of her teeth winking at me from her gaping mouth.

”I was brought up never to touch the servants, unless ye were goin' to thrash 'em, but here”-she thrust out a hand in a dirty glove-”let's shake hands, as two prime examples of the female species.”

I took her hand willingly, despite the knowledge that I'd need to find some soap and water before I resumed my journey.

She let go of my hand and looked around irritably. ”Where did Horace get to? I've got dogs that mind better.”

Sir Horace returned, red-faced and puffing from the effort of shepherding the stowing of the marchioness's luggage. A great cloud of steam enveloped the platform, and the conductor stalked the boards, hustling the remaining pa.s.sengers into their carriages and checking that the doors were securely fastened behind them.

The marchioness whacked my s.h.i.+n with her cane. ”Don't loiter about, Irene. We'll be leavin' any moment, and if ye miss your train, ye'll be stuck in Perth for days. If there's a more G.o.dforsaken place, I don't know it.”

I ma.s.saged my s.h.i.+n. ”Good-bye, my lady.”

”And farewell to ye. Remember to keep yer eyes open and yer wits about ye. Read yer Bible, and don't fall for any handsome toffs with wild black hair.” She winked.

”No worries there,” I said. ”Except for that injunction about the Bible. I've read enough of the Scriptures to hold me for the next few years.”

I said good-bye to Sir Horace, who mumbled and blushed and swept off his hat. Then I stood on the platform while the engines revved and steam pulsed out from the locomotive. Slowly, the wheels began to turn. I took a few steps, still gazing at the old lady's window. I felt a p.r.i.c.king in my eye and had to knuckle it away. d.a.m.ned cinders were a nuisance in these stations.

Sir Horace wrestled with the window to the marchioness's carriage. She put her head through the opening as the train began to roll.

”I forgot to tell ye that while ye can't fix hair for tuppence, yer a d.a.m.ned brave girl,” she cawed.

I smiled and lifted my hand in acknowledgement.

”Ye are yer mother's daughter, India. Ye remind me of her. She was a brave girl, too.”

My hand fell to my side and my smile faded to incredulity. My mother? What the h.e.l.l did the marchioness know of my mother?

The train was gathering speed. The marchioness was waving dementedly from the carriage. I flung myself down the platform after her.

”Wait!” I shouted. ”What about my mother?”

But the marchioness had disappeared in a billow of smoke, and the rumble of the train began to recede into the distance. I stood on the platform and watched it vanish from sight.

I was in a right state when I entered the railway carriage that would bear me back to London, but fortunately, the other occupants were engaged in a rancorous argument and paid no attention to me. Robshaw, immaculately dressed, with his arm in a sling, occupied a chair on one side of the private car. Robbie Munro, his nose swollen to alarming proportions, sat next to him. Both men were glowering across the room at French, who was scowling back. Vincent, G.o.d bless his soul, was providing moral support to his hero, staring blackly at the men from the Yard. Dizzy, like any sensible politician, had chosen a chair between the two camps and was busy scrutinizing his fingernails.

”I can only a.s.sume,” French said coldly to Robshaw, ”that you did not trust the prime minister and his agents to protect the Queen inside the castle.”

Dizzy looked pained at having been dragged into the dispute.

”Hold on, old c.o.c.k.” Robshaw smoothed his whiskers. ”It merely seemed prudent to have someone else in the house. And if you were unaware of his ident.i.ty, you and your, er, a.s.sociates would not slip up and divulge it.” His glance ricocheted from Vincent to me, and a smirk tightened the corners of his mouth.

Officious clot.

A muscle twitched in French's cheek. ”My a.s.sociates and I spent a great deal of time trying to eliminate Munro from the field of suspects; time, I'm sure you'd agree, which could have been spent more wisely trying to find the real culprits.”

Munro ran a hand through his curls. Since I'd discovered the handsome devil had been a red herring, planted by the Yard, I'd ceased to find him attractive. ”I may have distracted you, French, but I did succeed in infiltrating the Sons of Arbroath.”

”My dear boy,” drawled French, ”you'd made the acquaintance of poor Archie Skene, whose only motive in joining the nationalists was a grudge against John Brown. You attended one meeting of the group. You hadn't exactly penetrated the inner circle, nor did you learn enough from your contacts with the group to prevent the attacks on the Queen.”

”At least I didn't trip over my own shoelaces and have to run away like a frightened rabbit,” Munro said hotly. ”And what about Miss Black? She was sharing a room with Flora Mackenzie, for G.o.d's sake. You'd have thought Miss Black might have noticed something was amiss.”

”Now, now,” murmured Dizzy. ”Perhaps we should simply agree that things might have been handled better by all parties involved, rather than attempt to cast blame on one another.”

”That's easy for you to say, Prime Minister,” said Robshaw. ”But you're not the one catching it in the papers.”

Dizzy waved a hand airily. ”Oh, the press. You are much too sensitive, Superintendent. My advice to you in dealing with journalists is to develop a skin like a rhinoceros. But I shall see that several of our journalist friends receive a communique from the prime minister's office praising your efforts in capturing Lady Dalfad and dismembering the Sons of Arbroath. The uproar will die down eventually.”

French uttered a guttural noise of disgust.

”Bah!” Vincent exclaimed.

I remained silent, being in no mood to argue over who would get credit for removing the threat to the Queen. If anyone received the accolades, it should be John Brown, in my opinion. If the old girl hadn't been leaning over for a chin wag with the chap, she'd be dead now.

Bells clanged and the locomotive emitted an earsplitting whistle.

”Ah.” Dizzy sighed. ”We shall soon return to civilization. Superintendent, perhaps you would oblige me by describing the aftermath of the attempt on the Queen's life. I find that I have been so preoccupied in calming Her Highness and attending to affairs of state, that I have little knowledge of what has transpired. For instance, what of Vicker?”

”I can tell you that,” said Vincent, before Robshaw could open his mouth. ”I 'unted the cove down right after Flora tried to shoot the old . . . er, 'Er 'Ighness. 'E was tryin' to 'ush the maids, who'ad gone 'ysterical on 'im, and they were flutterin' about like a bunch of chickens about to 'ave their necks wrung. 'E was soaked with sweat and white as a sheet, and babblin' about the Queen gettin' killed on 'is watch and, oh, the shame of it. I 'ustled out and found one of the men from the Yard”-a murderous look here at Robshaw-”and told 'im to collect Vicker and bring 'im in for questionin'. Which, I might add, 'e proceeded to do.”

”Vicker may have acted suspiciously,” said Robshaw, ”but he wasn't involved with the Sons of Arbroath.”

”The man was as nervy as a middle-aged spinster,” I said.

”Yes, he was, and it turns out that he had good reason to be,” said Robshaw. ”It seems Vicker had developed an affection for one of the Queen's dressers at Windsor. One thing led to another, as it often does in these situations, and the young woman found herself with child. To Vicker's credit, he did right by the girl. They were married a few weeks ago at a small parish in London, where neither was known.”

Vincent's forehead wrinkled. ”Wot's the problem, then?”

”I expect the Queen would not have been pleased,” said French.

”And Vicker knew it. He'd be out on his ear, and his wife with him, as soon as the Queen found out. As you know, Vicker wasn't supposed to accompany the Queen to Balmoral, but the master of the household fell ill and Vicker had to fill in for him. Vicker had been intending to tender his resignation while Her Highness was away in Scotland. Instead, he was forced to join the Queen's household for the holiday. He was doubly anxious, as he was now responsible for running things at Balmoral, and because he dreaded the return to London, when he'd have to give his notice.”

”Poor devil,” muttered Dizzy. ”What will he do now?”

”He's off to South Africa,” I said, explaining to Dizzy about the letter I'd found in Vicker's wastebasket.

”With his new bride,” added Robshaw.

”Wot about Archie?” Vincent had found a hamper of sandwiches and was helping himself, opening them one by one and discarding the watercress and cuc.u.mber varieties.

”He's been arrested.”

”Go easy on 'im, won't you, guv? 'E's a decent bloke. I reckon I'da done worse than join a bunch of blokes in skirts if John Brown 'ad 'umiliated me like 'e done Archie.”

”I think you can rest easy on that score, Vincent,” said Robshaw. ”Skene was never more than a bit player in this drama. As you said, he was drawn into the Sons of Arbroath because he was angry that the Queen had demoted him on Brown's recommendation. He denies any involvement in the incident with the block and tackle in the stable, and I'm inclined to believe him. Skene resented the Queen but didn't really want to see her killed. I think he simply fell in with a bad lot and got in over his head. Just because he drank whisky with the conspirators doesn't make him one.”