To Kill a Queen (22 page)

It was Vince who found the solitary clue to his stepfather's strange phobia which he would have been ashamed to admit to any of his colleagues. Vince believed that it belonged to the time when his father, Constable Magnus Faro, was run down by a carriage in heavy fog on the High Street. Faro was four years old.

An understanding of the origins of his fear did nothing to comfort him in his now certain knowledge of what lay in wait at Glasalt Sheil. He realised the importance of keeping his discovery to himself. His only hope of outwitting his adversary was to play for time and pray that his messages had been believed.

The Queen's life was at stake and there were few at hand to defend her. Should any premature move or alarm be made, he had no doubt that the assassin would strike fast and a bloody end ensue.

Despite his urgency, the man whose inbuilt sense of direction was a legend in the Edinburgh City Police failed dismally in the face of rapidly descending fog. He proceeded to get himself well and truly lost. Taking the wrong track, twice he landed up on what he thought were the shores of Glen Muick only to find that between himself and the path to Glasalt were sixty yards of bog-marsh.

Steady, it seemed, shared his unease. The dogs meanwhile had disappeared. He whistled in vain; presumably they were near enough home to have deserted him for the warmth of the stables, while the other guests at the first signs of the descending mist had wisely reassembled at Glasalt.

An hour later Faro's non-arrival was the signal for alarm. The Prime Minister was organising a search party when horse and rider appeared through the gloomy murk of the stable yard.

Gladstone seemed a little put out by Faro's return. He had rather liked the idea of being on the trail of a detective inspector, whose methods of detection he would claim he found difficult to assess. The policeman had been unable even to find the simple solution to who had killed the Queen's dogs.

Although Glasalt supposedly signified informal living, some of the proprieties were to be observed. Accordingly they all stood by their chairs round the table in the little sitting-room, until a bell rang and the Queen appeared.

Faro wondered if half an hour would be the statutory allowance for this so-called leisurely meal, as he understood was the rule in Balmoral.

That soon appeared to be the case. All was silent but for the clash of cutlery, the pouring of wine, and the scraping of plates. The other diners refused all his attempts to engage in polite conversation. They had been here before, he soon realised from their warning glances in the direction of the Queen who gobbled her food at an alarming rate.

The Royal Scotch broth plate was emptied, bread demolished before it seemed the other diners had taken more than two spoonfuls.

At Faro's side, Captain Dumleigh belched quietly and refused the fish course. 'My indigestion,' he whispered. 'It is hell. Now you understand why.'

'I wanted to tell you—'

'Don't waste time,' said Captain Tweedie, timing his actions to coincide with the Queen's next course. 'I beg of you. Just keep eating, or you'll be starving by morning.'

Faro managed only half his salmon before the plate was whipped away. Resentfully he glanced towards the Queen who was drumming her fingers on the tablecloth, impatiently awaiting the next course.

With warning, he did better by the chicken and by refusing the Scotch trifle, kept well abreast of the field of diners. Realising, however, that his stomach was never his strong point, he knew he would be exceedingly fortunate not to end the day with a severe bout of indigestion.

If he was still alive.

Half-past eight struck. The Queen rose and went over to the piano. Accompanying herself she sang a Schubert
Lied
in German. The words meant nothing to Faro, but he could tell by her expression that it was a sad, sad song.

She was loudly applauded and smiling, wiped away a tear.

'Most affecting,' whispered Gladstone. 'One of Prince Albert's favourites. They used to sing it together.'

With the mist swirling at windows already streaked with fine rain, a cheerful fire proportionally larger than those which warmed Balmoral Castle did little to dispel Faro's fears.

The Queen was waxing poetic about Scotland, saying how sorry she was to leave Balmoral and claiming this was because of her descent from the ill-fated Queen Mary.

Touching Brown's arm, she whispered. He nodded and went out to return with Lachlan.

The Queen smiled. Indicating the piano she said: 'Come, Lachlan, you shall be our Rizzio.'

Faro felt this throat constrict. This was indeed a most unfortunate simile, he thought, remembering that other ill-fated supper room in Holyrood where more than three hundred years ago a Queen had been entertained by her secretary who had died minutes later clinging to her skirts with thirty-seven stab wounds in his body. That supper room still retained for Faro something of that terrible atmosphere as if the scene had frozen into the walls. For Rizzio's death had set the pattern for a series of catastrophes from which, those with Jacobite inclinations would claim, Scotland had never recovered.

A moment later, listening to Lachlan's playing. Faro realised that the lad was a gifted performer. A music lover himself, his favourite activity was going to concerts at Edinburgh's Assembly Hall. He had heard the finest in the realm and recognised with awe that he was in the presence of a born musician.

The Queen however seemed quite indifferent. She chattered to Lady Churchill and prevailed upon her to play dummy whist. Lachlan's playing of a Mendelssohn concerto failed to interrupt the slap of cards on the table and the Queen's joyous triumph over her lady-in-waiting.

Meanwhile the rain on the window intensified. Where was Vince? Why hadn't help arrived? Faro, feeling trapped, was conscious of the enormity of what was about to happen.

Purdie obviously was also uneasy. Lachlan ceased playing and to applause conducted by Faro, bowed and left the room.

Purdie, catching Faro's eye, led him to a far corner of the room and whispered, 'We must talk. We must make some sort of plan. I have told Brown of our fears. He found them amusing. Amusing! Can you credit that? I told him we intend to remain in the house tonight and if necessary we will sleep outside the Queen's bedroom door.'

Producing a roughly drawn plan of the house, he said, 'Any attack will be made during the hours of the night. Here is the Queen's bedroom and next door Lady Churchill's. On the floor above, John Brown. The Captains have been allocated rooms next door to her. Servants in the stables—'

Purdie paused, held up his hand. 'Listen. Did you hear that?'

Faro looked towards the fire with its crackling logs.

'No.' Purdie interpreted his gaze. 'A shot. From outside.'

Springing to his feet, bowing briefly towards the Queen who was oblivious to everything but the fact that she held a hand with several trump cards, he said to Faro, 'You stay here.'

'I'm coming with you.' Faro was about to follow him when his way was blocked by Mr Gladstone who wanted a full account of how a detective inspector had managed to lose himself on the hill that afternoon.

Trying to withdraw with speed and tact was an impossibility. A minute later, no longer caring for politeness, he shouted, 'You must excuse me, Prime Minister,' and bolted.

Purdie had disappeared. Faro called several times, his voice swallowed by the thick mist. The only sounds were of the trees dripping mournfully, while somewhere close at hand a sheep lamented.

Closing the front door behind him, he walked round the house carefully, but there was no sign of a lurking intruder or of Purdie. Entering by way of the kitchen door he found Captain Tweedie vigorously stirring powder into a glass.

'Bicarbonate of soda. Dumleigh is suffering agonies of indigestion. We've made our excuses to Her Majesty.' And suppressing a yawn he added, 'If we are to be fit for this night vigil, we had better get Dumleigh on his feet again.'

'Is there anything I can do?'

'Not a thing. All Dumleigh needs is to lie low and let this take effect. Noble is bringing us a hot toddy, just to make sure.'

Faro went up to the room he was to share with Purdie but as he had expected it was ominously empty. He was overcome by a sudden feeling of helplessness and despair that the situation was running away from him, that in this case he was no longer in control and too much had already been lost.

Taking from his valise the gun he had acquired in Ballater and his uncle's skean dhu for good measure, he ran downstairs. The corridor leading to the sitting-room was dimly lit and intensely cold, the domestic scene heart-warmingly normal as Faro opened the door.

The party had broken up with the departure of the two Captains. Mr Gladstone, lacking an audience, greeted his arrival with delight.

Of Brown there was no sign. And where was Purdie?

The Royal game of dummy whist continued with the slap of cards on the table. The Queen, either by luck or design, was winning as usual.

'My trick, I think,' she said. 'And another—and another. For goodness' sake, my dear, why did you not play your trumps?'

Lady Churchill wisely pretended not to hear.

This time there was no escape from Mr Gladstone who put down his
Lives of the Saints
with some eagerness. Advancing upon Faro, he picked up the threads of their broken conversation as if in fact Faro had not retreated in mid-sentence.

The clock struck nine. It had been a long evening which would soon end with the welcome sight of hot toddies all round. 'To keep out the cold', as Brown put it.

As the minutes ticked by, the ponderous question and answer game with the Prime Minister had been transformed into a monologue on the benefits of hill-walking to one's health and moral fibre.

Faro's mild protest about the weather brought forth the stern rejoinder, 'God made the elements, sir. They all have their place in His universe. It is not our place to question His will.'

The Prime Minister now switched from the perfection of healthy exercise to the imperfections of the criminal mind. Despairingly, Faro hardly heard Mr Gladstone's theories, his mind on Purdie's disappearance. Suddenly he realised that the Prime Minister nursed secret longings to be a detective.

His discourse was momentarily interrupted as the footman slid a tray of hot toddies on to the sideboard just inside the door.

The Queen's frugality in the matter of candles was firmly adhered to in the Widow's House, where all the illumination was centred on the fireside and an oil lamp provided for card players.

With his back to them, Noble added glasses to the jug on the tray. His livery now included his white wig, although such spruceness could hardly matter in this informal atmosphere, thought Faro, as he was not required to serve them individually.

As the door closed behind the footman, Mr Gladstone frowned at this new diversion. 'It appears that we are to help ourselves.'

Faro sprang to his feet. 'Allow me, sir.'

'Not Her Majesty,' warned Gladstone. 'She, er, makes her own arrangements with Brown.'

At Faro's questioning look, he added, 'It is traditional. They share a last dram together, after everyone else has retired. Including Lady Churchill. Her Majesty dismisses her last of all. The poor lady sleeps badly and is allowed to take a sleeping draught,' he said with a disapproving shake of the head.

At the door Faro noticed that Noble's spruce appearance had not extended to wiping his boots which had carried a great deal of mud into the room.

He offered the tray to Lady Churchill who declined sharply. 'I never do, thank you.'

The Queen, intent on her game, slapped down another fan of cards. 'Our game, I think. We have won again,' she cried delightedly.

As Faro hovered indecisively, Lady Churchill whispered, 'Brown serves Her Majesty.'

Prim but eager, Mr Gladstone took the glass, stared at the contents and with an apologetic 'Just to keep the cold out. I am a poor sleeper you know,' drank the contents at one gulp.

Faro took one sip and hurriedly replaced the glass on the tray. He was a purist where whisky was concerned and disliked the addition of sugar and hot water. That for him savoured too much of Vince's 'medicinal purposes', his constant remedy for his stepfather's upset stomach.

As he returned the tray to the sideboard, the door opened to admit Brown who took it from him. 'Let me do that, Inspector.'

And noticing the muddy footprints, Brown shook his head and whispered, 'I'll need to get one of the servants on to that. The Queen's a stickler for clean floors. Have you no' had your toddy. Inspector?'

'I prefer mine undiluted.'

'Aye, that's the way of it for me too. But we have to humour the Queen,' he added pouring some of the jug's contents into a glass. 'Shame to desecrate good usquebaugh, the water of life.'

And taking a large sip, he paused to grimace. 'This is awfa' stuff, right enough. Too spiced, half cold. I have my own secret receipt for the Queen's toddy.'

Faro glanced sideways at the Prime Minister who seemed to have subsided into his chair. Brown's entrance had mercifully doused his monologue on the peculiarities of the Scottish law verdict 'Not Proven'.