"Would I be imposing if I asked you two to focus on the matter at hand?" French asked, rather superciliously, I thought, given that Vincent and I were doing this for free, not to mention chapping our hands in the process while French hovered around warm fires and depleted the Queen's liquor supply.

"Righto, guv," Vincent said. He swallowed some whisky and topped off his gla.s.s. "I got into Archie's room with no trouble at all." Vincent being an accomplished cracksman, I suspected he was telling the truth. "There wasn't much there, only a shotgun under the bed that looks about a 'undred years old. A twentyeight gauge, so I reckon Archie uses. .h.i.t for rats and crows and the like. It ain't exactly the weapon I'd choose to kill 'Er 'Ighness, 'less you could get in real close, and then, 'er bein' as fat as she is, I reckon the shot just might hirritate 'er."

French hid a smile behind his tumbler of whisky. "Well done, Vincent. There was nothing to connect Archie to the Marischal or the Sons of Arbroath?"

"I didn't see nothin,' and I went through the place hinch by hinch."

"Well, I can't say I was any more successful at turning up incriminating evidence in Red Hector's room," said French. "Naturally, he's got weapons: one of those sgian dubhs the Scots love, and a brace of pistols in a fancy case. There's no reading material in the room, other than some p.o.r.nographic pictures under his combinations and a dozen reports from breeders with a wealth of detail about bloodlines, dams and studs."

"Wot's a skin do?" asked Vincent.

"A ceremonial knife, with a short blade and pommel. The Scots wear it tucked into their socks."

Vincent mulled over this addition to his knowledge of the world's weapons.

"And how did you fare, India?" French asked.

"I think I've done rather well." I informed them of the letter in Vicker's wastebasket. "He's clearly planning on leaving the country, and soon."

"'E could be 'avin' a 'oliday," said Vincent.

"A man of his cla.s.s would more likely spend it in Brighton than South Africa." I sipped the whisky and found it very fine. So far, it was the only thing I'd enjoyed in Scotland.

"I shall get Robshaw on it right away," said French. "Did you find anything else of value?"

I told them about the house plan with the names of the guests lettered on it. "It's suggestive but not terribly suspicious. As deputy master of the household, I think it's something Vicker would likely use."

"'Less there was a big ole 'X' on 'Er Majesty's room, hit probably don't mean nothin'."

"As much as I hate to acknowledge your perspicacity, Vincent, I expect you're right."

"Wot's that mean?" Vincent bridled.

"She's flattering your intelligence, Vincent, although in a rather oblique way," French said. Vincent's brow wrinkled at the word "oblique," but as it had been issued by his hero, he did not demand an explanation.

French twirled his tumbler in his hands. "What about Munro?"

"Ah, there's an interesting lad." I informed the two of them about the reading material and the revolver I had found among Munro's possessions.

"Hit's 'im," Vincent p.r.o.nounced firmly. "Got to be, with all that hincriminatin' evidence."

"He's almost too perfect as the villain," mused French. "Robshaw shall hear of this immediately, of course. In the meantime, India, you've got to keep a close eye on the man."

"And how am I supposed to do that? Remember, I'm the zookeeper for the marchioness, and it's not as though I could follow Robbie around anyway, even if I had free time on my hands."

French dismissed these rather serious obstacles with a vague wave. "Oh, you'll figure out something. You always do. I'm not concerned about what he's doing while on duty, but rather what he gets up to when he's off the clock."

"I don't think servants ever get off the clock. I shall have to inform the marchioness that I am unavailable after midnight and before breakfast." I tipped my cup at French. "When Munro is on duty, you'll have to see that he doesn't get close to the Queen. I mean, if you're not preoccupied with pinching the maids and getting sozzled with Bertie and Red Hector."

French gave me the glare that comment deserved.

"I s'pose you want me to follow Archie around and see that 'e don't get up to nothin' with that shotgun of 'is?"

"Yes, Vincent. If he slips off, try to follow him. But be careful. We don't know yet what we're up against. One or more of these fellows could be members of the Sons of Arbroath, and they could be in league together." French drained his whisky. "I'll get on to Robshaw as soon as I return to the castle. It certainly looks as though Munro is our most likely suspect, but we cannot afford to ignore the others. Let's keep our wits about us."

SIX.

It was fully dark by the time I'd navigated my way along the path and down the hill to the castle. The kitchen was bustling with preparations for tea, and I slipped in during the hubbub and reached the safety of Flora's room. I shed my coat and slipped into uniform, then hopped it down to the kitchen again where I found Flora and Effie, Lady Dalfad's maid, sharing a table and a cup of tea. Effie wasn't my first choice as dining companion, and I had been hoping to speak to Flora alone, to see what additional insight she might provide into Munro's background, but that would have to wait for the moment. I poured myself a cup of tea and b.u.t.tered some bread. Flora was regaling Effie with a tale about a hapless laundress who had burned a hole clean through the Earl of Roseberry's best dinner jacket with a hot iron, which made Flora giggle and Effie purse her lips sanctimoniously. Did the woman ever smile?

"How are you feeling, India?" Flora turned her attention to me.

"Much better, thank you. I had a good rest and now I'm fit as a fiddle." I selected a sandwich from the platter. "And how did you two spend your time off today?"

"I read the Bible," Effie announced. "It is my custom to do so on the Sabbath."

Lord, what a twit.

"What did you get up to, Flora? A walk with handsome Robbie? Or more than a walk?" I grinned conspiratorially at her.

"Och, wouldn't I have liked that?" Flora sighed theatrically. "Alas, the dear boy wasn't anywhere to be found today."

This was interesting news. "I saw him polishing silver before luncheon," I said.

"Did you now?" Flora looked at me sharply. "I thought you were resting this morning."

"Oh, I was. But it seemed a little close indoors, and I thought a breath of air would settle my stomach."

"He must have had something to do, as he wasn't in his room nor anywhere around the castle," said Flora. She snickered. "I should know; I went looking for him."

At this news, Effie looked shocked.

"He wasn't with you, was he?" Flora was smiling at me, but there was an edge to her voice.

I didn't want the girl to imagine that I had fixed my sights on Munro, and I hastened to a.s.sure her that my beau back in . . . (b.u.g.g.e.r, where had I supposedly worked before joining the marchioness?) well, my beau was the man for me, and I had forsaken all others.

"Robbie is a catch," I told Flora. "How lucky for you that his uncle lost a footman and Robbie was available to take on the job. Although Robbie told me he'd rather be out in the fresh air than serving soup to the swells. I wonder why he became a footman. Did he ever tell you?"

Flora shrugged. "He's not said a word to me about his job. I just a.s.sumed he'd been brought up to be in service, like most of us here at Balmoral. You know, his father was a valet and his mother a housemaid, that sort of thing."

"Do you know his uncle well?"

"Old Murdoch, the under butler? He's a fine gent. He was ever so fond of Prince Albert, and he's totally devoted to the Queen."

"Did you know he had such a luscious nephew?"

"If I had known, I would have been after him to hire Robbie before now," Flora simpered.

"I wonder how he occupied his Sunday afternoon," I mused, sipping tea. "Maybe he went for a walk, being the type that prefers the outdoors."

"Perhaps he found a secluded place where he could smoke," Effie contributed.

A look of suspicion had taken lodgings on Flora's face. Clearly, I had exhibited too avid an interest in the whereabouts of Robbie Munro. It was time to direct the conversation elsewhere.

"I understand Lady Dalfad is one of the Queen's ladies of the bedchamber."

Effie swelled noticeably with pride, as though she inhabited the role along with the countess. "Indeed she is."

"And what, pray tell, does a lady of the bedchamber do?"

Effie looked shocked at my ignorance. Well, I could have informed her that there were "ladies of the bedchamber," and then there were ladies of the bedchamber, and while I could give her quite an education on the role of the latter, I had no idea what the former got up to.

"The countess acts as a companion for the Queen, taking tea with her, or meals. If the Queen desires, she accompanies Her Majesty for outings: a ride in the carriage, perhaps, or a walk, or sometimes she will keep the Queen company while she's sketching or listening to music."

Sounded deuced dull to me, especially since Vicky looked like she'd be about as much fun to be around as a funeral director after Judgment Day.

"And how does one become a lady of the bedchamber?" I asked.

"One is invited by the Queen," said Effie. "It is a great honour." She paused a moment, then added, "Although Lady Dalfad does not always seem to think so."

Flora bit into a fairy cake. "Really? Why is that, I wonder?"

I could have given my own theory (see above) but remained silent.

Effie frowned, either because she was truly puzzled over her employer's lack of enthusiasm for her position with the Queen, or because Effie herself had spilled the beans and wished she hadn't. "I'm not sure," she said hesitantly. "Sometimes she finds it all a bit tiresome, having to do what the Queen wants to do, when the Queen wants to do it."

"That would wear on anyone. At least the Queen doesn't snort castor sugar and spray it all over her dining companions."

That got a laugh, as I knew it would. "By the way, what does the Earl of Dalfad do while his wife gallivants around with the Queen?"

Effie put down her teacup and gave me a look of severe disappointment, like a sixth-form schoolmaster who'd just been told that Epicurus was some Roman chappie with a propensity for hair shirts and self-flagellation. "There is no Earl of Dalfad."

"Is he dead? Is she actually the Dowager Countess?"

Flora looked a bit shocked as well. "Didn't you know, India? There is no Earl of Dalfad. The countess has never been married. She holds the t.i.tle in her own right."

Their reaction made me uneasy, not to mention puzzled. Every Englishman knows that a countess is a countess because she married an Earl, and that t.i.tles pa.s.s only along the male line. This means that Dear Old Blighty is run by a small, very select group of braying, inbred nincomp.o.o.ps who inherited their estates and t.i.tles by virtue of being the first infant with a p.e.n.i.s to pop out of the womb. In this scheme of things, women are just so many brood mares, chosen for their bloodlines or fortunes, and if they're lucky, they acquire in the marriage process a t.i.tle and a husband who doesn't spend much time at home. I was dying to know how the countess became a countess, but as Flora and Effie had reacted as though any fool would know the answer, I didn't fancy asking more questions. I'd drawn enough attention to myself.

I had attended to my duties, smartening up the marchioness for tea and dinner, filling her snuffbox, sponging the wet snuff from her tea gown and then her evening gown, listening to her croak admiringly of the sweetbreads and meringues she'd shoveled into her gullet, and finally bundling her into bed with a hot water bottle at her feet. I'd collapsed into my own narrow cot, having had a rather long day. I'm a Londoner, born and bred, and probably don't walk four blocks without calling a hansom cab. An hour spent straggling over rocks and hills in the cold air had left me exhausted. I snuggled under the covers and was asleep before I'd pinched out the candle.

I slept soundly until roused by a hammering at the door.

"Miss Black?"

By now I recognized Robbie Munro's voice. I groaned.

"The Marchioness?" I asked. Unnecessarily.

"Yes. She requires your presence."

I struggled upright and into my clothes, wiping the sleep from my eyes and hoping that the old lady hadn't forgotten we'd already read Troilus and Criseyde. There was no way I could endure that again.

My employer was propped up in bed with a shawl around her shoulders and a gla.s.s of whisky in her hand, which she waved vaguely in my direction, leading me to believe that she'd indulged in a gla.s.s or two of the stuff already.

"There ye are, Iphigenia."

Iphigenia? I was beginning to feel like French. Correcting the old lady, however, was just so much wasted breath.

"What can I do for you, my lady?"

"I'm in the mood for a story tonight. Fetch the Bible, and ye can read me the tale of Samson and Delilah."

I breathed a sigh of relief. I had only to plough through three chapters of the Book of Judges. With luck, the old lady would be asleep before Samson got hold of the pillars and buried the Philistines in a heap of rubble. Besides, I quite like Samson, being a towering oak of a fellow and a womanizer who consorted with harlots and ripped lions apart with his bare hands. I'm not sure I buy the part where he slays a thousand men with the jawbone of an a.s.s, or ties torches to the tails of three hundred foxes so they can scamper across the Philistines' fields and set them alight. I suppose a donkey's jaw could be an effective weapon initially, but it would be smashed to bits after crushing twenty craniums or so. And as for the foxes, well, hard to imagine how the first two hundred and ninety-nine occupied their time, waiting for the three hundredth to get prepped and ready ("I say, old chap, ready for a run? Makes a bit of a change from the hounds, what?") But it makes for a good story, and I'd rather read about a hairy brute with superhuman strength than that milquetoast Troilus any day. But I digress.

The marchioness sipped her drink, and I started in with chapter 13, the most boring bit where Manoah and his wife (never identified by name, but you'll find that quite common in the Good Book: the most inconsequential fellow has a moniker and his poor barren wife, who has to do the hard yards, remains anonymous) get a visit from an angel informing them they'll have a son, but for G.o.d's sake, whatever you do, don't cut his hair. Things pick up after that, what with the jawbone incident and the foxes and Samson getting married but being betrayed by his wife (another woman who shall remain anonymous because old Samuel the author was either a misogynist or an amnesiac).

I had just gotten to the part where Samson makes the fatal mistake of marrying that trollop Delilah, when the marchioness sat up straight and cackled into her whisky gla.s.s.

"Have ye noticed, Iphigenia, that the fair s.e.x always brings a man to his knees?"

I could have elaborated on that theme, but I didn't think the marchioness was strong enough to hear the catalog of s.e.xual positions available at Lotus House.

"Mmm," I murmured in agreement.

"There's Samson, as strong as an ox"-and about as smart as one, I might have added-"and he falls for some little bobtail who's willin' to deliver the secret of his strength to the Philistines."

"Well, the remuneration was tempting," I said. "Eleven hundred pieces of silver from each of the lords of the Philistines if Delilah discovered Samson's secret. I mean, even I might find that too enticing to pa.s.s up."

The marchioness peered at me over the rim of her gla.s.s. "I'm not surprised that Samson is taken in by Delilah, for when it comes to women, most men have the brains of a stag durin' the rut, which is to say, none at all. Samson should have confirmed his choice with another la.s.s. She'd likely have seen through Delilah's charms and saved Samson from endin' up as the afternoon matinee for the Philistines."

"You think women are better judges of character than men?" I asked.

"I am," she announced. "I hope ye are as well." She looked uncharacteristically sober for a moment, with the shawl tucked up under her chin and the tumbler of whisky trembling in her hand. "I don't think either of us would have been deceived by Delilah."

I turned a few pages while my mind worked furiously. Had the marchioness rumbled me? If not, why this pointed conversation about treacherous s.l.u.ts lining their pockets with ill-gotten gains? It was enough to make me wonder if I had allowed my disguise to slip in some way. But even if I had, surely the old topsy was too dotty to have noticed that my service as a lady's maid left something to be desired? And how could she have made the leap from servant to wh.o.r.e? It beggared belief that a woman who couldn't tell snuff from face powder had the wit to uncover a bint in the castle.

I did not have to confront this issue, however, being saved from doing so by the sound of running footsteps thundering past the marchioness's door.

"Who can that be at this hour?" said the marchioness. "Don't they realize people are tryin' to sleep?"

I bit back a response that would have included acid agreement on the lack of consideration on the part of those who disturbed the slumbers of others.