"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 shirked 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 crashing 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 polishing 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 polishing 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 shine 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 fishing traps or stalking stags?"

Robbie grinned. "That would be better than polishing 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 shirts 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.

I gave her what I hoped was the wan smile of a semi-invalid. "A bit. But I expect the marchioness will need me before luncheon."

"You've plenty of time. It's a madhouse downstairs. The Queen makes everyone go to services, then we have to sweat like slaves to get luncheon ready for her. She's cross if she doesn't get fed by two o'clock."

That was welcome news, as it was only one o'clock now, and that meant all the servants would be engaged in preparing luncheon, with the toffs off to their rooms for a quick nap or a tot of sherry. Vicker would no doubt be occupied with all the details of serving the Queen a fortifying meal of a dozen courses, and I would have an opportunity to slip into his room and fish about for incriminating evidence.

I left Flora changing back into her working clothes and scurried down the stairs to the main floor, where Vicker's room was located. I peeked into the kitchen, to see Miss Boss and Cook working like stevedores, the former bullying the maids and the latter bustling around with her cap askew, her usually genial expression replaced by one of intense concentration. I pa.s.sed on, before Miss Boss noticed my appearance and dispatched me to the marchioness.

Outside the butler's pantry the footmen were lined up, with McAra, the head butler, giving them the once-over while Vicker stood to one side, teeth clenched and his face pale, shifting nervously on his feet like a pugilist ready to step in the ring.

McAra consulted the paper in his hand. "And the buffet will include a game pie and a woodc.o.c.k pie, as well as beef and tongue. For the fish course, the guests have their choice of turbot or sole."

Vicker was fidgeting restlessly, his watch in his hand. "For G.o.d's sake, McAra, can't you move this along? We've got to be ready to serve in less than an hour."

McAra turned toward Vicker, as slowly and stately as a transatlantic liner. "With all due respect, sir, I know what I'm about here. I've served the Queen these fourteen years, and we'll have the food on the table and serve it up just as we always have, to Her Majesty's satisfaction." He turned back to his charges. "Now then, eclairs au chocolat for dessert."

Vicker made a strangled noise in his throat and stalked off in the direction of the kitchen, where doubtless he would soon be irritating Miss Boss and Cook. The sweat on his bald head glittered in the light of the gas lamps. He was on edge, no doubt about it, but was it because he was here to a.s.sa.s.sinate the Queen, or had he just forgotten the place cards for luncheon?

I bobbed and ducked my way past McAra and the battalion of footmen, and once out of sight, I hared away to Vicker's room. It was risky, with Vicker still stalking the halls, but I calculated that he would stay in the center of activity and not retreat to his room until luncheon had ended and the Queen was safely tucked away for a snooze. I could only hope that in his agitation, Vicker hadn't wet himself, necessitating a quick trip to his room and a change of linen.

The deputy master of the household rated a far superior room to that allocated to the Marchioness of Tullibardine's maid. The double bed looked comfortable and the quilts warm. Vicker also had a writing desk and a drinks table with etched crystal gla.s.ses and a half-empty bottle of rather superior whisky, along with a set of bookshelves and a cozy armchair near the fire in the inevitable Royal Stewart tartan. But the room had an air of seediness about it, as though the occupant wasn't quite a respectable fellow. A dip pen and several sheets of writing paper were scattered on the desktop, and the stopper to the inkwell had not been replaced. A dirty collar hung over the back of the armchair, and one of the whisky gla.s.ses had been used, then set upon the polished surface of the bedside table. I picked up the gla.s.s and found it sticky to the touch; a thin ring of spilled whisky had eaten into the polish of the table. Perhaps Vicker was a drunk, which might go some way toward explaining the tremor in his hands, and his pale, perspiring face. I could not imagine, however, that the Queen (as persnickety as she was said to be) would tolerate a rum hound as deputy master.

I foraged through Vicker's belongings at a flying pace, keeping an ear c.o.c.ked toward the door in the event the poor b.u.g.g.e.r felt the need for another infusion of liquid courage to quiet the nerves. The wardrobe held only duplicates of the same getup Vicker wore every day: starched white collar and shirt, black necktie, waistcoat and suit. He had a pair of polished black half boots, a st.u.r.dy pair of hobnailed boots in brown leather, and a baggy suit of dusty green tweed (presumably for his rare moments of relaxation away from the confines of the castle). I perused the bookshelves, pulling out the volumes and letting the pages flutter through my fingers. There were a few improving books of sermons and essays on the moral condition of man (the pages had yet to be cut on these; apparently, neither the room's previous occupants nor its current one were overly concerned with their immortal souls) and the complete works of Sir Walter Scott. I chose Rob Roy from the shelf and thumbed through it, but there were no hidden messages written in secret code, no underlining of words that marked the time and place of the Queen's a.s.sa.s.sination. If owning a set of the laird of Abbotsford's books indicated disloyalty to Her Majesty, then half the literate population of Britain would be considered traitors. I stifled a yawn and moved to the desk.

The sheets of paper I'd noticed earlier were wrinkled and blotted with ink, as though a schoolboy had been tasked with neatly copying out his lessons but failed numerous times. A drawing under the writing paper caught my eye. I moved the sheets aside to have a gander and found myself staring at an architect's drawing of the castle interior, with the inhabitants of each room marked in pencil. A useful thing for an a.s.sa.s.sin to have in his possession but equally as useful to the deputy master of the household, who doubtless had to know where to send the chamber pots and which earl required a spittoon. I replaced the drawing and arranged the papers over it, taking a moment to hold them to the light to see if they revealed anything incriminating. I could make out a faint impression on one of the sheets: "Dear Mother." I put it down and sighed. I suppose a.s.sa.s.sins can be dutiful sons, but somehow I couldn't imagine anyone as dull as Vicker having the gumption to thrust a pistol to the Queen's head and shout, "Sic semper tyrannis," as he pulled the trigger.

One of the sheets had been crumpled into a ball and discarded in the wastebasket. I picked it up and smoothed it out on the desk. I might as well be thorough. With luck, I'd stumble across the killer's to-do list: 1. Make sure gun is loaded (or knife sharpened, as the case may be).

2. Buy railway ticket.

3. Sign last will and testament.

4. Pack sandwiches.

But I found nothing so explicit. Vicker had indeed been penning a letter to his mumsy, but there was no way for me to tell whether he'd actually finished the missive and posted it. Certainly, the contents of the sheet I held in my hand were evocative.

"Dear Mother," it read, "by the time you receive this letter I shall be gone, bound for South Africa."

I filed away the information to report to French, crushed the letter in my hand and dropped it back into the wastebasket. I made a final survey of the room, rummaged under the mattress, tapped all the stones on the fireplace for secret hiding places and searched the oak floorboards for the same. Satisfied that I had missed nothing, I poked my head out of Vicker's room and scanned the hall. d.a.m.n and blast! At the end of the corridor, the deputy master had waylaid a footman and was barking instructions at him like a drill sergeant. It wasn't the footman's plight that aroused my anxiety, but the fact that he and Vicker were positioned so that I'd have to squeeze past them to return to Flora's room, and I had no real reason to be loitering in this particular hallway. There was no choice but to b.u.g.g.e.r off in the opposite direction and take a circuitous route back to my sanctuary. To my right, just steps from Vicker's doorway, was a convenient corner to disappear around. Of course, if Vicker happened to look up and see my back vanishing down the pa.s.sage, it might occur to him that I had to have emerged from one of the rooms that lined the hall, and it might have been his own room I had just exited.

If I lingered any longer, Vicker would finish his tirade against the footman and turn toward his quarters. It was time to go. I took a deep breath and edged out of the room, closing Vicker's door gently behind me. I was torn between the urge to bolt and the desire to appear completely innocent of tossing Vicker's room. I adopted a nice compromise, I think, moving purposefully but with speed, as though I had just gotten a summons that Vicky needed me to spoon up the pudding. I fairly flew along the hall, my feet skimming the floor, until I reached the corner and was home free. Then I took a moment to collect myself and consult the rather hazy plan of the castle I carried around in my head. From what I could recollect of the layout of the place, the quickest route back to Flora's room was a shortcut through the guest wing. I wouldn't look out of place mucking about there; I could always claim a summons from the marchioness if I was seen.

I was pattering along the main floor of the guest wing, wondering if I might b.u.mp into French (which reminded me that I still owed him a punch in the chops for taking liberties with my person) when the portly figure of the Prince of Wales stepped into my path. It was French's fault; if I hadn't been fulminating over the way he'd slapped my b.u.m, I'd have been on the lookout for Bertie. It was common knowledge that you didn't want to be caught alone with the heir to the throne, as you were liable to be dragged into a broom closet and impregnated. I added this latest issue to the list of those that I meant to take up with French the next time I saw him.

"It's Miss Black, isn't it?" Bertie asked in a jovial voice. "Friend of Mr. French's, I believe."

I tried to blush and look virginal, which as you can imagine is infernally difficult for me. "I've made his acquaintance, sir, but we're hardly friends."

This turned out to be the wrong thing to say. Bertie raised his eyebrows and smoothed his whiskers with a thumb. "Ah, so I wouldn't be stepping on the old boy's toes if I offered my own friendship to you?"

b.u.g.g.e.r, b.u.g.g.e.r, b.u.g.g.e.r. How to play this? Saucy and pert, a flirtatious promise of a later a.s.signation (that would take place when Hades iced over)? No, that would likely just inflame the randy chap. Shy and demure, a maid uncorrupted by men? From what I'd heard of the prince, he liked nothing better than deflowering the innocent. So, I was bound to rouse the old boy's predatory instincts either way.

"I'd indeed be honoured if you bestowed your friendship upon me, Your Highness." I edged away from the plump lecher, trying to put some s.p.a.ce between us. Where was Miss Boss when you needed her?

The prince erased the distance between us, moving with surprising quickness for a prize porker. He touched my cheek with one plump finger, stroking it lightly.

"I've a nice bottle of champers in my room. I was planning to have a gla.s.s before luncheon. Care to join me?"

I ducked my head. "Oh, sir, I couldn't. The marchioness is expecting me."

The prince was beginning to look impatient. Apparently, I was taking rather longer than a maid should in succ.u.mbing to his charms. "d.a.m.n the marchioness. Come on, girl. I've only a few minutes before I have to be downstairs."

He encircled my wrist with his hand, put his arm around my shoulders and began dragging me toward the nearest room. Now, I had no doubt that I could make him stop this behavior in an instant; all it required was a swift blow to the conkers and Bertie would be collapsed on the floor, gasping like a hooked trout. But what that might mean for my future, I could easily guess.

I was just about to capitulate gracefully, resigning myself to a brief contemplation of the state of England (Bertie had said he had only a few minutes) when a raucous cry split the air.

"Christ," said Bertie, bounding away from me like a scalded cat. His head swiveled as he searched for the source of that piercing scream. No doubt he expected to see his mater bearing down on him, flourishing a riding crop and ready to use it on her wandering boy.

"Isadora?" the voice croaked again. The marchioness came weaving down the hallway, her cane thumping in a ragged rhythm against the stone floor. "Where have ye been? I sent for ye an hour ago." She hacked up a clot of wet snuff and spit it on the floor.

I shot the prince a regretful glance, as if to say, "Sorry, Bert, maybe next time," knowing full well that he'd never get a second chance at me, not without employing a few rascals to carry me off against my will. Bertie retreated sullenly, with a thunderous look at my rescuer, but he had the grace to nod his head at her as he pa.s.sed her.

The marchioness waited until he was out of sight, then rounded on me, spraying snuff. "What did I tell ye about that man? Ye're not tryin' to cozy up to that ne'er-do-well, are ye? Ye'll be sorry if ye do, just mark my words. Ye'll end up with regrets, not to mention a fat baby to feed."

"Oh, no, ma'am. I know my station in life. I wouldn't dare make overtures to a member of the royal family." Especially one who resembled a sperm whale (aptly named, that species, when compared to our Bertie). "His Highness stopped me in the hallway as I was on my way to your room." I didn't challenge the marchioness's allegation that she had sent for me; she might very well have done so while I was busy tossing my suspects' rooms. On the other hand, the old dear might have imagined she'd summoned me and gone lurching through the halls in search of her missing maid. Whichever the case might be, I was grateful for her intervention, saving me a quick (and, d.a.m.n it all, free) session with England's next king.

I escorted her back to her room, spiffed her up for a lengthy stay at the feed table and left her in the custody of one of the footmen. Then I took myself down to the kitchen and put on my own feedbag. Cook had laid out a sumptuous repast, and I fortified myself with rare roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and apple crumble with a slathering of yellow custard. It was a far cry from Mrs. Drinkwater's boiled beef and cabbage, and I pondered the circ.u.mstances of life that ent.i.tled a podgy neurotic who communed with the dead to a chef of Cook's caliber, merely because she was the British monarch, while I had to make do with a cook whose best dishes might only be appreciated by the inhabitants of a besieged city. After the meal, I wanted nothing more than to collapse on my bed for a nap, but there was still the marchioness to see to (I'd heard no report of explosions in the dining room, so presumably, the marchioness had refrained from dipping into her snuffbox with the Queen present). I trundled back upstairs and met the marchioness at her door, removed her shoes and dress, then wrapped her in a dressing gown and stuffed her into bed. I added logs to the fire and drew the curtains, and I hadn't even left the room before she was snoring like an ancient bull mastiff.

Mercifully, Flora was nowhere to be seen when I returned to her room. Probably flirting with Robbie Munro, since the servants had Sunday afternoons off until teatime. I donned my outdoor clothes again (I debated adding Flora's m.u.f.fler and gloves but decided against it; I didn't want her to find them missing) and crept out of the castle. I hoped Miss Boss had retired for a siesta; it would be deuced awkward to run into her and have to explain that while I was too ill to attend kirk that morning, I now felt up to a longish hike through the woods. However, I gained the outer door without incident and set off up the steep rise behind the castle.

Half an hour later, huffing like a steam train, I had reached the stone hut. Once again I followed French's instructions, whistling softly to let him know I had arrived. The back door opened and French appeared, waving me inside. He still hadn't lit a fire, but there was a bottle of whisky on the table and three crude tumblers of clay. Vincent was already nursing a drink, the tops of his ears and the tip of his nose a bright cherry colour from the cold.

"Did you have any difficulty in getting away from the castle?" asked French.

"No, all the servants were having a rest."

"Or a snog," said Vincent, sn.i.g.g.e.ring.

"You've a nasty mind for a young sod," I said. "But you're probably right."