Part 21 (1/2)

”It's alright,” I said to the cook. ”Let him in. We're having a drink, Vincent. Care to join us?”

”Too right.” Vincent lunged for the drinks cabinet, but I leapt to my feet and intercepted him. That boy had a hollow leg. I poured out a moderate measure, which Vincent looked at dubiously but accepted. He plunked down in one of my best chairs before I could stop him. I closed my eyes. I'd have to have the fumigator around.

French raised his gla.s.s. ”To success in Scotland.”

We drank (well, who needs an excuse, really?), but I was shaking my head before I'd finished.

”How can you call that a success? There were three attempts on the Queen's life, and the last one would have succeeded if Her Highness hadn't felt the sudden urge to whisper sweet nothings into John Brown's ear.”

Vincent had polished off his drink and slithered over to the whisky bottle without me noticing. ”The old bird's been shot at before. She must be gettin' used to hit by now.”

French smothered a smile. ”And we caught the brigands this time, India. The perpetrators are in gaol, and the Sons of Arbroath are scattered to the four winds.”

”This special-agent business seems to turn out rather inconclusively,” I said. ”I was expecting something more definitive.” And a bit more heroic on my part, if I must tell the truth. I'd managed to survive my bout with Flora, but it hadn't been me who dispatched her, or Lady Dalfad for that matter. I admit to feeling some disappointment at not being the heroine. It's all well and good to blather on about the Queen and the monarchy and saving the country, but a little personal glory wouldn't go amiss.

I was brooding on the topic when French rose from his chair. ”I've brought you something, India. An early Christmas present.”

”I hope it's a bottle of whisky. You and Vincent seem to have emptied this one.”

French bellowed for Mrs. Drinkwater, and the old cat came simpering in, bearing the parcel French had deposited with her.

He presented it to me with a flourish, laying it across my lap. Vincent came to look over my shoulder. I still shudder when I think about the smell that accompanied him.

The box certainly did not contain hothouse flowers. It was heavier than I'd expected, and the weight inside s.h.i.+fted as I positioned the box to open it. I removed the bow, tossed it to the floor and lifted the lid cautiously.

”'Urry up,” said Vincent.