"Yes, I set down the tray on a chest in the hall and went to the doctor's room. He wasn't best pleased at being roused at that hour for anyone but the Queen, but he went anyway."

"And did Vicker return to his room without any a.s.sistance?"

Robbie shrugged. "I a.s.sume so. He was gone when I returned to collect the tray. I was afraid the cocoa would be getting cold, so I hurried to the Queen's chambers and left it with the countess. She was a bit stiff about it; I suppose I was a few minutes late."

"Ah, well, not to worry. The countess is stiff about everything." I gave Robbie a comradely wink. "She's never satisfied with anyone's service. In fact, she's convinced you've never been a footman before."

The brush dropped from Robbie's hand. His face was hidden as he bent to retrieve it, but not before I'd glimpsed the look of alarm that spread over his features.

I was swinging down the hallway, feeling rather pleased with myself for completing the mission French had a.s.signed to me and was in search of the patrician b.a.s.t.a.r.d himself so as to deliver the news, when the paunchy figure of the Prince of Wales hove into view. He was without his usual retinue of jolly, half-drunk sycophants, which spelled trouble for yours truly. I cast about for a hiding place and found my options were few. I debated the wisdom of diving into one of the rooms along the corridor, but there I'd be cornered like a vixen in her den. It was better, I reasoned, to stay in public view and hope that before Bertie could fling me over his shoulder and cart me off to the nearest bedroom, rescue would appear in the form of a guest or Miss Boss or even the marchioness.

"'Allo,'allo," said the Prince, beaming. For a fat man, he could move surprisingly quickly. Only a second ago, he'd been ambling down the hall toward me, and now he was encircling my waist with a brawny arm, breathing a potent mix of stale whisky and cigar smoke in my face.

"Your Highness," I said, wiggling strenuously. "How very nice to see you."

He nuzzled my neck and breathed into my ear: "It appears we both have a few moments free from our official duties. Shall we take advantage and indulge in a bit of slap and tickle?"

I'll grant you, Bertie was bold, if not wise. He pinched my b.u.m and I squealed, which produced a l.u.s.ty chuckle from the heir to the throne.

I sucked in my breath and feigned panic (well, feigned is probably not the correct word, as I was in fact feeling some consternation at the moment), slapping away the prince's hands. He let out another throaty laugh and tightened his grip around my waist.

"Oh, good Lord," I hissed. "Is that the Queen?"

At least Bertie was predictable. He recoiled from me like a snake charmer dodging a cobra strike, his eyes bulging from his head.

"Where?" he asked, but I had already sidestepped him and was rocketing along the hallway, with very little idea of where I was headed, other than out of reach of the next King of England. I heard a stifled shout of rage behind me as Bertie realized he'd been hoodwinked, and the sound of footsteps on my trail. Confound it, where was everyone? The castle seemed deserted, except for me and the unhappy prince, who had not taken kindly to being duped by a lowly maid. I careered past a series of closed doors, hoping to find an open one, where I planned to waltz inside regardless of the status of the room's occupant and claim sanctuary. I could hear the prince's heavy tread and labored breathing. He was a determined chap, I'll grant you that, especially when his plans had been thwarted.

I had nearly reached the end of the corridor when I spied the handsome figure of French emerging from one of the rooms. I must admit to feeling the merest hint of relief when he stepped into view. He raised an eyebrow as I swooped in behind him and clutched his arm.

"Hide me," I commanded.

"Too late," he said. He cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, Your Highness. Pleasant day, what?"

The prince b.u.mbled to a halt, wheezing. "Indeed it is, Mr. French. Though I suspect you had planned something even more pleasant for yourself," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

French chuckled self-consciously. "'Fraid you've caught me out, sir." He reached around and snagged my arm, dragging me forward. "Miss Black has volunteered to help me adjust my mattress. Frightfully bad night last night, lumps everywhere."

Bertie nodded, looking daggers at me. "Well, we can't have one of our guests being uncomfortable. I shall certainly let Vicker know of your discomfort. He's just the chap to remedy the problem." The prince smiled humourlessly at French and gave me a last significant glance before he marched away, back rigid, smoothing his hair with his hand and straightening his tie.

French pushed me into his room and locked the door behind us.

"Curse it," I said, expelling a breath of relief. "That man is a menace. I can't seem to go anywhere without running into him. If I disappear, look in Bertie's room. He's likely to have me stuffed in his wardrobe." I smoothed my ap.r.o.n modestly. "Of course, if I weren't such a deuced good-looking woman, I wouldn't have such trouble."

French snorted. "Don't flatter yourself. The Prince of Wales is as about as discriminating as a stoat during mating season." As stoats are promiscuous little devils, copulating with any number of females and then darting off in search of greener pastures (or more females) and leaving their discarded partners to raise the resulting little stoats, I found the comparison apt.

French flopped into a chair and draped one leg elegantly over the arm. "Have you learned anything?"

"Never walk alone in the halls while the prince is in the castle," I said, helping myself to a seat without waiting for an invitation from French. "Have you any whisky? Or brandy? I could do with a tot after my narrow escape."

I expected to be directed to the bottle, but to my surprise, French rose to his feet and poured us each a brandy and soda. I sipped mine gratefully and summarized what I had learned of the travels of the cocoa tray. When I finished, French lit a cheroot and watched the smoke eddy to the ceiling while he thought this over.

"How is the Queen?" I asked.

He stirred himself. "She is much better this morning. She seems to have ejected the contents of her stomach during the night and is now resting peacefully."

I winced at the image that had formed in my mind.

French carried on: "Doctor Jenner is inclined to believe it was merely a case of too much rich food; at worst, a mild case of food poisoning. It's difficult to disagree with that diagnosis, but I would not think food poisoning would be limited to one or two persons. Literally dozens of guests and staff ate the same thing last night. If it were food poisoning, one would expect many more people to have been sick."

"The only other person who exhibited any symptoms of illness was Vicker, and as he's one of our suspects, the validity of his infirmity is questionable."

French tapped the ash from his cigar. "Quite."

"Not food poisoning, then. Overindulgence by the Queen?"

"In view of the threats on her life, I do not think we can merely a.s.sume the Queen ate too many meringues for dessert. And the diversion of the footman Munro by Vicker is interesting."

"Have you seen Dizzy? What is his opinion?"

"He is concerned, of course. He expressed his disquiet to the Queen. She refuses to countenance his fears. She was not, in her opinion, intemperate in her choice of food last night. She is inclined to think that, if anything is amiss, it was with the chocolate. She remembers feeling quite ill immediately upon drinking it and then beginning to vomit. But she is disinclined to believe that anyone tampered with the cocoa. She believes the milk used to make it was spoiled."

"I think that's doubtful. The kitchen is spotless, and Cook is too experienced not to have noticed if the milk was off. There was ample opportunity for someone to doctor the cocoa. Not only did Munro leave the cocoa in the hall while he went off to fetch the doctor for Vicker, but Cook left the tray on the counter in the kitchen for Munro to collect. G.o.d only knows how many people knew the nightly routine and knew where they could find the cocoa. Vicker's diversion of Munro looks suspicious, but it's just as likely that someone took the opportunity to add the poison while the tray was in the kitchen. If the cocoa was poisoned at all," I added.

"Robshaw has taken away the remains of the cocoa to have it a.n.a.lyzed," said French. "But it will take weeks to get any results."

"By which time the Queen could be safely back in Windsor, or Dizzy might be attending a state funeral."

French frowned. "I find black humour inappropriate, India."

"I wasn't trying to be funny." I polished off the remains of my drink. "It seems that we need to confirm whether Vicker was indeed ill last night."

"I'll have a quiet word with Doctor Jenner. The more difficult problem is narrowing down the list of people who pa.s.sed the tray in the hallway, or were in the kitchen after Cook made the cocoa and before Munro picked up the tray."

I groaned. "Surely you're joking. I'd have to question every servant, and how am I to do that without giving away the game? And you'll have the same issue with the guests. They may think you're an amiable fop, but how many of them will sit still while you grill them about their whereabouts at midnight last night?"

French nodded glumly. "A dead end, I'm afraid."

"When is Robshaw going to get us some information about our list of suspects? We might eliminate Vicker as our potential a.s.sa.s.sin if the superintendent would put on some speed."

"It does seem to be taking an inordinately long time to investigate a few chaps," French mused. He extracted his watch from his pocket. "Good Gad, I'm late for luncheon."

"Try to avoid sitting near the marchioness, if you can," I advised. "And if you must, carry a large handkerchief."

SEVEN.

The rest of the day and evening pa.s.sed uneventfully, save for the usual struggle to manhandle the marchioness into an evening gown and out of that into her nightclothes, all the while picking flakes of snuff from her person and listening to her chunter on about the quality of the vittles she'd ingested, but eventually, I had the old dearie swaddled in blankets with the fire banked for the night. I yawned my way back to Flora's room. I was spent from reading the Holy Scriptures to the marchioness during the wee hours, interrogating Cook and Robbie Munro, and narrowly escaping becoming the Prince of Wales's latest conquest. I needed a tranquil night, which, of course, I was not to have, for just as the long-case clock in the hall struck midnight, a footman I hadn't seen before knocked loudly on the door and woke me from my slumbers. I opened the door to him in my shift, which struck the poor man dumb.

"The marchioness?" I queried, and the bloke nodded silently, tearing his eyes away from my decolletage with difficulty and stumbling away down the hall, having delivered his message. I dressed, not without difficulty as my fingers were clumsy and stiff from the cold and lack of sleep, and blundered groggily through the corridors with a candle in my hand.

The marchioness was sitting up in bed, nursing a whisky and looking d.a.m.nably pert for this hour of the night. Dispiritedly, I contemplated another session with that lively band of fun seekers, the Old Testament prophets.

"How are you, my lady? Can I bring you anything? A cup of tea? Some coffee?" A dose of morphine? I added silently.

The marchioness snuggled into her covers. "I'm well set up, as ye can see," she said, waving her whisky gla.s.s at me. "Help yerself to a dram."

She didn't have to ask twice. I found a gla.s.s and poured a generous tot. The whisky burned like fire, and for the first time in a long while, I felt warm.

"There are five reasons to drink, la.s.s. Do you know 'em?"

I shook my head.

"Good wine, a friend, or bein' dry; or lest you should be bye and bye; or any other reason why." The marchioness hooted and lifted her gla.s.s. She was well into her cups. One of life's small ironies, I supposed, that she hadn't pa.s.sed out and left me to a night of restful repose, but instead looked ready for a night of carousing.

"I canna sleep," she announced.

I conceded the point; it would be difficult to doze off at night, having spent a good part of the day slumbering.

"Would you like me to read to you?" I looked around wearily for the marchioness's Bible.

"I would. But not from the Good Book." My sigh of relief must have reached her ears, for she gave me a sharpish look. "I'm in the mood for somethin' else tonight. Trot downstairs to the library and find the Queen's copy of Miss Greenhow's book."

"Miss Greenhow's book?"

"Surely ye've heard of her?"

"I can't say that I have."

The marchioness honked in derision. "Come now. Everyone has heard of Rose O'Neal Greenhow. The society matron in Washington who spied for the Confederacy during the War Between the States?"

"Oh, that Greenhow. I had confused her with someone else."

The marchioness's rheumy eyes swam with suspicion. "No matter. Just fetch the book, and together we'll renew our acquaintance with the lady."

I rose from my chair. "Yes, ma'am. And the name of her book? It's on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason"-probably because I'd never heard of it-"I can't recollect it."

"My Imprisonment and the First Year of Abolition Rule at Washington," the marchioness snapped.

"Of course," I murmured and slipped away. Catchy t.i.tle. I hoped the contents were an improvement.

I took up my candle and wandered out into the hallway. I knew the library was the first room past the entrance hall, in the corner of the castle, which meant that even someone as congenitally indisposed to navigation as I was should be able to find my way there. I bypa.s.sed the servants' stairs and descended the grand staircase to the first floor. As luck would have it, the entrance to the library was directly across from the stairs, and the door was open. I slipped inside and let out a curse: the walls were lined with books, hundreds of them, it seemed. At this rate, the marchioness would have forgotten she'd sent me to the library and fallen asleep while I spent a h.e.l.lish night examining t.i.tles by candlelight. The thought was appealing, and I was debating whether I could just stretch out on the tufted leather sofa and catch a few winks when I heard distant laughter, a m.u.f.fled chorus of "Drink, puppy, drink," and the muted crack of billiard b.a.l.l.s. Some of the toffs must still be up, having a nightcap and a game.

I peeked out into the hallway. Now I confess that I am not without faults (I'll thank you to keep your snide comments about my profession to yourself), and among them is an innate curiosity that occasionally leads me to venture into areas best left unvisited (like the Russian Emba.s.sy, or a smuggler's boat bound for Calais, as I have previously recounted). So it was no surprise to me that I was seized with the temptation to suss out the billiard room and see what the boys were getting up to. I left my candle on a table in the library and followed the gleam of light down the corridor until I could see a corner of the billiard room, ablaze with light and awash with the blue smoke of cigars. Smoking being strictly verboten at Balmoral, I half expected to see Vicky charging into the room in her nightie with a whip in one hand.

I spotted French leaning languidly on his cue stick, a snifter of cognac in one hand and a cheroot in his mouth. His hair was rumpled, and he'd a.s.sumed an expression of affable dissolution. A bloke with a shock of ginger hair had b.u.t.tonholed French and was talking animatedly, emphasizing every other word by stabbing his cigar perilously close to French's waistcoat. Stewed to the gills, the young fellow was, and swaying dangerously on his feet. This could only be Red Hector MacCodrum, seventh Baronet of Dochfour, the favorite nephew of the Earl of Nairn and rabid Scottish nationalist. From the looks of him, Red Hector had made a heroic effort to polish off the Courvoisier singlehandedly. French must have wound him up on the political situation, because the baronet's face was contorted with the fanatical pa.s.sion that only taxes or blood sports can arouse in the aristocracy.

In the dark hallway behind me, someone cleared his throat. I spun round, no doubt looking guilty as h.e.l.l, even though I hadn't done a thing (this time). Vicker emerged from the gloom, looking overwrought and wrung out.

"Mr. Vicker," I said. "I see you've recovered from your illness. That's wonderful." I had thought to disarm him with a show of interest in his welfare, but he wasn't having any of it.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked. You could have iced lemonade with his voice.

"The marchioness sent me to look for a book in the library." I grinned sheepishly. "I heard voices and was just curious about what the gentlemen were doing."

Vicker gripped my elbow. For a pasty fellow he was devilishly strong. "What they are doing is no concern of yours. Is that understood?"

I tried to disengage my arm, without success. "Yes, Mr. Vicker. I'm sorry, sir. I'll just go look for that book now."

He stared into my eyes for a long minute, then nodded stiffly and released his hold on me. He watched as I retreated to the library, where I s.n.a.t.c.hed up my candle and began to peruse the bookshelves. I heard footsteps, and Vicker appeared in the door.

"What book does the marchioness want?" he asked.

Confound it, what was the name of that book? Something about prison, but I was hanged if I could remember the rest of it.

"Er, it's by a woman who was a Confederate spy, and she wrote a book about going to prison," I babbled. "That's all I can remember. Oh, and her name is Greenhow."

Vicker nodded dubiously, no doubt nonplussed at my description of the book (which sounded like a feeble fabrication even to me) or perhaps at the marchioness's choice of reading material.

"I shall return here in a few minutes," he said. "See that you have found the book and rejoined the marchioness by then, or I shall have to have a word with Her Ladyship about the situation." He stalked off silently.

Spurred on by the thought of another encounter with Vicker, I made a rapid search of the books in the library. For a good twenty minutes I pored over the t.i.tles, trying to read the letters in the wavering light from my candle, but I could not find the volume the marchioness had requested. Truth to tell, the whole concept of the Queen having a copy of a Confederate spy's autobiography in her library had sounded far-fetched. I was beginning to think my employer was pulling my leg, and my inability to find the book only confirmed my belief.

I was in a foul temper and covered with dust by the time I'd finished searching. b.u.g.g.e.r Rose Greenhow, I thought. The marchioness will have to be satisfied tonight with more stories from the Pentateuch. My candle had burned to a stub, and Vicker was due back any second. I shut the door to the library and climbed the grand staircase again. Halfway up, my candle guttered wildly and the flame died, leaving me in darkness. d.a.m.n and blast. I had trouble finding my way around this pile in the daylight; without a candle or lamp, I was all at sea. I crept to the wall, hugging it and feeling my way up the stairs, one halting step at a time. I reached the second floor and turned toward the marchioness's room. Ahead of me, a candle flame floated down the corridor, illuminating a head of red gold curls. Robbie Munro stole quietly down the hallway, shielding the candle with one hand and searching the wall to his left. As I watched, Robbie's head turned, and I shrank into the nearest doorway. Then the candle flame wavered, and Robbie disappeared.

By the time I had groped my way back to the marchioness's room, it was getting on to two o'clock in the morning. The old lady was still upright in bed, and she gave me a murderous glare as I entered the room.

"Where've ye been? Ye've been gone for hours. I could have walked to Tullibardine and got the book from my own library by now."

"I'm terribly sorry, my lady. I searched the library carefully and could not locate the volume of which you spoke. Then my candle went out, and I had some difficulty finding my way back here."

"Hmmph. A likely story, Ingrid. Ye haven't been consortin' with the prince again, have ye?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. I can a.s.sure you I have not."

The marchioness shifted irritably. "Bother. I was lookin' forward to hearin' Mrs. Greenhow's story again. I canna believe the Queen doesn't have a copy of the book here. Did ye search carefully?"

"I did, my lady. I looked at every t.i.tle. Is the book so very popular that you expected the Queen to have the volume?"

"Mrs. Greenhow once had an audience with the Queen, and she presented her with several copies of the book. Ye know how authors are, always pushin' ye to read their claptrap. Anyway, I expected the Queen to dump one of the volumes here at Balmoral. It's quite an excitin' story, actually. Sit down and I'll tell ye about it."

I don't believe the marchioness heard the whimper that escaped me as I dutifully took a chair.